Chapter Three
Alex left the burn wondering if Ailis’ abrupt arrival was a blessing or a curse. It would have been all too easy to accept what Sibylla had offered, but he’d held back. A kiss was no sin, he told himself, but he’d never experienced the kind of attraction he felt for the lass, and feared where temptation might lead. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he almost collided with Sibylla’s uncle as he passed through the baily.
“Ah! Just the man I wanted to see.” MacHeth clapped a heavy hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “I would know how Domnall progresses in his lessons.”
Alexander struggled with how he should answer that. The lad rarely came when he was supposed to, and even when he did, his mind was anywhere but on his studies. Though he didn’t want to put Domnall out of favor with his uncle, he also couldn’t lie. “When he comes, he won’t remain above an hour,” Alexander said. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to keep his interest, but maybe ’tis a waste of time.”
“’Tis nothing against ye,” MacHeth said. “He’s never been one for books. But a man must do many things in this life that he doesn’t like—especially one who aspires to lead other men.”
“Domnall is your tanaiste?” Alexander asked.
“Tanaiste?” MacHeth snorted. “If justice be done, the lad would one day be king of all Alba.”
“King?” Alexander repeated blankly.
“Aye,” MacHeth nodded. “You don’t ken? Did Domnall not tell you how he came to be at Kilmuir?”
“Nae.” Alexander shook his head. “He tells me nothing.”
“I suppose he would not,” MacHeth said. “’Tis a sore subject and a source of humiliation.”
“Why is that?” Alexander lengthened his stride to match the larger man’s steps and waited for him to elaborate.
“Through his father, the lad is descended from King Duncan, not that his kinship has never been to his benefit,” he was quick to add.
“Why is that?”
“Their father, William Fitz Duncan, never saw fit to press his own claim to the throne. Instead, he let the present king buy him off with lands and titles in both Alba and in England. He married my sister to cement his claim to our lands and then later divorced her to wed a Norman heiress, Alice de Rumilly. Although Fitz Duncan died a very rich man, he left Domnall and Sibylla with nothing.”
“If Domnall is his son, how is that possible?” Alex asked.
MacHeth responded with a humorless laugh. “All things are possible through machination, murder, and mutilation, the Canmore specialties. In this case, they repudiated Domnall’s legitimacy to give his inheritance to a younger half-brother, William the Atheling of Egremont, the son of Alice de Rumilly.”
“But why?” Alexander asked.
“Because there is a long history of enmity between the Canmores and the Highlanders,” MacHeth explained. “Why should the king give land and power to one with bloodties to the clan who most strongly opposed his reign, when he could grant those same lands and privileges to a faithful Norman? He surely thought to suppress Domnall’s claim by making him illegitimate and a penniless dependent, but Domnall is not like his father. His blood runs true to his Highland heritage—which is why he is now here, under my protection.”
“Does he think to oppose the king?” Alexander asked.
MacHeth shook his head. “Already his life must be guarded at all times. I will not permit him to endanger himself, while under my protection, but once he comes of age, I have little to say about it. He must make that decision for himself.”
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? Alex was about to ask when the sound of clashing steel assailed his ears.
“I thought we’d find your errant pupil here,” MacHeth said.
He raised the latch and swung open the gate. Inside were half a dozen youths in mock combat with sticks, targes, and blunt swords.
“What is this place?” Alex asked.
“The armory,” MacHeth replied. “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, I would not have him go unprepared.”
Transfixed, Alex watched as one lad charged another only to be felled to the ground with a strategic sweep of his opponent’s leg. From thence, the would-be sword battle quickly transformed into a full out grappling contest.
While another pair practiced with swords, two other combatants, one he recognized as Domnall, had paired off with bollock daggers. Although he was no stranger to the knife, as he’d wiled away countless hours in secret practice with his own sgian-dubh, Alex had never witnessed such skill. Even to Alex’s untrained eye, he could see that Domnall was lithe and swift and skilled in his strikes.
“Would ye like to join them, lad?” MacHeth asked. “’Tis not too late to learn. Why not ask Domnall to teach ye to fight?”
“Domnall?”
“The lad’s unchallenged amongst that lot.” MacHeth inclined his head in his nephew’s direction where Domnall circled his opponent with a wolfish smile on his face and a predatory gleam in his eye. “’Twas the only good thing that came out of his early life—exposure to well-trained Norman soldiers.”
Alex shook his head with a laugh. “Weaponry is hardly an appropriate skill for a priest.”
“Swords and knives alone do not harm,” MacHeth said. “’Tis all in the hand that wields them. Have ye already decided to take the vows?”
“I don’t ken,” Alex replied, eyes still transfixed on the fighters. “Father Gregor would have me wait another year.”
“Domnall!” MacHeth called out to his nephew before Alex could reply.
The moment Domnall’s head turned, 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.
“Gu leòr! Enough!” MacHeth barked.
Domnall released his sparring partner with a show of reluctance, contrasted by the lad’s eagerness to gain his feet. Mumbling what was surely a threat for future retaliation, Domnall sheathed his daggers and turned to his uncle.
“By my reckoning, ye should have been at your studies an hour hence,” MacHeth reproached his nephew.
“I dinna like the books.” Domnall cast Alex a glower. “The priest should go back whither he came.”
He made no attempt to hide his contempt. Perhaps his attitude might change if he could find some way to gain his respect. Alex studied Domnall. “Verra well. I’ll go under one condition—if ye can best me in a challenge.”
“A challenge?” Domnall’s green eyes glittered. Clearly, Alex now had the younger man’s attention. “What manner of challenge?”
“I have no skill with swords or combat,” Alex confessed. “But I have some skill with knife throwing. If I can best ye, ye’ll attend all of your lessons. If I lose, I’ll go back to the monastery.”
MacHeth’s brow furrowed. “Are ye certain about this, Alexander?”
“Aye,” Alex replied with a resolute nod. After sixteen years of practice, he was quite confident he could do it. He wanted to do it, but not just to gain Domnall’s respect. He wanted to do it for himself. “Domnall can name the target”
“Ye just might regret that decision.” Domnall raised a brow. “I would call a chicken at five paces.”
“A chicken?”
“Ye said any target,” Domnall challenged.
“A’right” Alex agreed.
“Duncan!” Domnall called out to a fair-haired boy. “Go ye to the chicken coops and bring back two.”
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. It seemed word of the contest had spread quickly. “What do ye want me to do with them?” he asked.
“Take them back a few paces,” Domnall instructed, watching 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. If this were a simple target he could have shut his eyes, but a running chicken? The bird was about ten paces away and its movements would surely be erratic.
Alex nodded to Duncan. “Let one loose and then jump back.”
The boy tossed the birds. They landed in an angry ruffle of feathers, darting hither and fro. Focusing on one bird, Alex crouched and waited. The instant the bird paused, he flicked his wrist. The knife spiraled twice through the air. The spectators released a collective gasp as the weapon impaled his target.
“Well done.” MacHeth clapped him on the back.
Just as Alex opened his mouth to respond, Sibylla came into view. With a glare in his direction, she darted toward the bird, picked it up, and snapped its neck with her. She then withdrew his knife, wiped it on her apron, and came toward him with a disapproving scowl wrinkling her brow. “’Tis not right for it to suffer just to prove yourself manly,” she said, offering the knife.
“But that’s not why…” he protested—to her departing back.
Alex had felt a twinge of conscience in killing an animal, but he rationalized that the chickens were doomed to be dinner anyway. What difference did it make how they got to the cooking pot?
“Don’t try to ken the mind of woman,” MacHeth remarked with a chuckle. “’Tis a wasted effort. Now, let us see if Domnall can duplicate the feat.”
Domnall stood ready with bollock knife in hand. Slowly, he began circling the lone chicken, who now stood frozen in place and staring defiantly back at him.
“’Tis an unfair advantage,” MacHeth remarked.
“No matter.” Alex shrugged. “Either he can best me or he cannot.”
Some of the bystanders encouraged the chicken with whistles and catcalls, but it continued to stand its ground. “’Twill be chicken for supper this night,” Domnall remarked with a smirk. The instant he loosed the knife, the chicken leaped out of its trajectory. Domnall gaped as the blade landed in the grassy turf.
“It appears I have won,” Alex said evenly. “I will expect to see ye tomorrow morning for your lessons.”
As Alex prepared to replace the knife in its sheath, he became aware of MacHeth staring at the blade. “May I see it?” he asked, hand extended.
Alex offered it reluctantly. The sgian-dubh was the only thing that connected him with his family. Had he endangered himself with his thoughtless challenge? Had he allowed his male pride to overcome his innate caution and good sense?
His mouth compressed as MacHeth examined the worn inscription on the blade. His gaze snapped up. “Where did ye get this?”
“I dinna recall,” Alex answered, sensing danger. MacHeth’s interest was far too acute to be just idle curiosity. He knew something that Alex didn’t. There was so much he longed to know, but MacHeth’s reaction told him to hold his tongue.
MacHeth handed the knife back to Alex. “We will speak more of it later.”
Alex left MacHeth and the training grounds with myriad questions flooding his brain—questions he thought he’d buried years ago—that still had no answers.
Crossing the bailey, Alexander once more encountered Lady Sibylla. She was outside the kitchens, hanging the dead chicken. She purposely turned her back to him as he passed.
“Ye didn’t give me a chance to explain,” he said.
“A’right.” She spun to face him, hands on hips. “Why did ye do this?” she demanded angrily. “Ye already caught fish for supper, and I ken ye eat not the meat. Why did ye feel the need to kill my favorite hen?”
“Your hen?” He’d had no idea.
“Aye,” she sniffed. “She was the best layer of the lot. What was so important for ye to prove that ye had to kill her?”
Damn. Damn. Double damn.
“I-I’m sorry,” Alex stammered. “I don’t ken. The chicken wasn’t my idea when I made the challenge. ’Twas your brother that 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 asked, intrigued to know how she thought of him. “How?”
“Less prideful.” She shrugged, averting her gaze from his. “More thoughtful.”
“Aye?” he replied, feeling strangely warm inside. “I would like to think that I am.”
“Yet, ye proved otherwise,” she replied with a snort of contempt.
“Will ye not let me explain, Sibylla?” Her Christian name slipped thoughtlessly over his lips as he gently grasped her shoulders.
“What is there to explain?” Her gaze once more met his. Her eyes flashed with indignation, reminding him of a summer storm on the Tarbat ness.
“’Twas for a greater purpose than male pride,” he said. “I hoped that by winning your brother’s respect, I might have the chance to accomplish what I came here for.”
Her gaze flickered. “I still don’t understand. Ye killed my hen so ye could teach Domnall?”
“Aye. I told him if he could best me with the knife that I would go back to the monastery, but if I beat him, he would have to attend his lessons.”
“And he agreed?”
“Aye.” He nodded. “With your uncle as witness.”
“And ye won.” She glanced up at her dead hen. “Then I s’pose ’twas worth the sacrifice of a few eggs.” Her gaze returned to his and softened. “I’ll forgive ye.”
His attention fixed once more on her lips. Alex forced his hands to slip from her tiny shoulders. “Thank ye, my lady.”
Reminding himself of the danger, he turned to leave.
“Alexander?” she asked.
“Aye?” He instantly halted his steps.
“How did ye learn to throw a knife like that?”
“I’ve practiced since I was a wee lad.”
“Do ye think ye could teach me?” she asked. “Like ye taught me how to fish with my hands?”
Alex shut his eyes with a groan. He’d vowed not to be alone with her again. He would have to deny her request. He drew breath to do just that, but somehow the denial eluded his rebellious tongue.
“Aye. I could teach ye,” he said.
“In the morn then, before anyone’s awake? Meet at the armory?” she suggested.
“At the armory,” he agreed with a nod. It was not the answer he’d intended to give her. How the de’il had he become so weak?
One thing he knew for certain, meeting her alone in the armory was not the way to avoid temptation.