One Snowy Knight (10 page)

Muriel looked contrite. “Beg pardon, Skena. In my panic I forget the burdens you carry.” She paused, her eyes lifting upward to the tower. “What about the braw man in your bed? I have seen you tending him. You favor him. Aye, he needs care for the short term, but he is a fine man. You will find naught better if you search the breadth of this land. A proper lord he would make for Craigendan.”

If only.
Skena choked back the pain fisting around her heart and pointed out, “We truly ken little about the man. He might be an ogre by nature.”

Muriel laughed mockingly. “Clutching straws, Skena? My eyes may not be as sharp as they were a score year ago, but that man is quality. Few like him about. You want him—do not deny this. Your eyes speak the story, lass. Cease waiting for life to happen. Take what you want before men fashion the path of your destiny.”

“Shut your gub and let me gather my wits.” She tried to sound stern, the lady of the keep. Muriel chuckled. Skena could not stop the blush spreading up her neck and to her cheeks as she noticed all eyes upon her. “Och, everyone, go about your chores. Fetch some bread and cheese. Warm some cider. They will be cold, weary from the long ride in the snow. We have guests acoming. Snap to.”

Skena fisted her hands, thinking how the fare for these Englishmen would be food from the mouths of Craigendan’s people. Well, there was naught for it. She had to treat this Englishman with all respect due to their overlord. Mayhap things would work out. With Earl Challon being kinsman, mayhap she could indeed apply for support.

“If wishes were cows we would not starve this winter,” she muttered, and glanced down at her faded kirtle, disheartened she had no time to change. Well, they were a poor holding. No use to put on airs and pretend otherwise.

Galen hurried in, his face drawn. “Skena, I came as soon as I heard. ’Tis truth? The Black Dragon comes?”

“We learn shortly.” Skena curled her fingers into her palms to hide the trembling.

Skena stood before the huge fireplace in the Great Hall, pretending to watch the blaze. There was beauty in the peat’s flickering blue flames. Still, she found no solace in the warmth, instead fretted if there were enough peats to get them through the winter, knew they had not cut any to lay aside for next year. To keep de Servian cosseted, she had burned thrice the number of blocks that she would for herself alone. She had been so frugal with their rationing this past month. Worry gnawed at her mind. Everything seemed tainted with the specter of unease of late. Each time she swore things could not get worse, some trouble came along and increased her woes tenfold.

“Believing things cannot grow worse is like having faith in wishes. If wishes were wings, I would will them to carry this bloody English dragon back to his lair and leave me in peace,” she spoke lowly to the fire.

The double doors were jerked open, causing her head to snap up. Her stomach tightened, preparing for the coming order. She was not a weak woman. Oh aye, she was stubborn, willful, mayhap
too
willful according to Angus. However, to face this Black Dragon was an ordeal she was not girded for. Never in her whole life had she fainted, but the prospect loomed in her mind as a very real possibility. Her blood jumped as her eyes locked on the tall man flanked by his entourage.

So this was the Earl Julian Challon.

He paused halfway to her and removed his leathern gloves, which he passed off to a smaller man behind him, likely his squire. Then he removed the helm and pushed back the mail coif, revealing a riot of black curls. If she had not gazed upon the countenance of Noel de Servian, she would instantly have said she stared into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. Clean-shaven in the Norman way, his strong jaw and sensual mouth were revealed in their perfection. As he neared, she saw the green eyes flecked with shards of dark amber returned the same scrutiny as hers. Skena’s stomach muscles flexed hard, wondering about the opinion he was forming of her. She was not dressed in the finery of a lady of her station. She was tired, worn thin by work, fear, and nursing de Servian for three straight days. The face she presented to him was shadowed by the uncertainties she found harder and harder to hide.

“Good morrow, Earl Challon. I am Lady Skena MacIain. I bid you well-come to Craigendan. Please be at home in my humble keep. May I offer food and drink to you and your men after your cold, hard ride?” Where she found the ability to speak she did not know. Her throat was corded with tension.

He inclined his head slightly. “My men would appreciate something warm, aye.”

“A mulled cider or mead?” she offered, motioning to the bench by the fire for him to sit and warm himself.

Instead, he stepped to the fire and held out his hands to it. “Either would be most well-come. Howbeit, I am not the earl. I am Guillaume Challon, Baron Lochshane.” He offered her a gentle smile. “I fear I am still unaccustomed to the title as yet.”

This man was one of the bastard half-brothers of the earl. Back in the spring, the Earl Challon had raised his brother, Guillaume, to be the lord of Lochshane and set the betrothal to her cousin, Rowanne. That she was not dealing with the Black Earl, as Julian Challon was called, caused the faint trembling within her to lessen. The baron was an imposing man, mayhap even a shade taller than de Servian. A formidable warrior indeed, but the fact he was not his powerful brother eased the fretting a small measure. Likely this man would not rule upon the fate of Craigendan. That left the question of why he was here.

She nodded to a servant to bring in the food and drink for the Englishmen. She grit her teeth when several of the lasses began blushing around the men. Ah, a keep full of females and no men for months was a dangerous situation. She needed all of Craigendan’s secrets shielded from prying eyes. Obviously, these Norman warriors would have to stay the night; it was too far for them to journey back to Lochshane with night falling so soon in the day. She would have a hard time seeing some of the keep’s workers did not climb into the pallets of Baron Lochshane’s men. It was too easy to let something slip when the mind was on matters of the flesh, she feared.

“My lord, pray what drives you out into the snow to pay a visit to Craigendan?” She tried to pose the question to sound as naught more than polite curiosity. “To be sure, you hardly enjoyed the ride here in the aftermath of the worst snowstorm we have ever seen.”

“Sometimes demons drive men to extreme measures, my lady.” He chuckled at some private jest. “In this circumstance, ‘they’ seized on the excuse of hunting for an old and very dear friend. Men from the party of Sir Noel de Servian were found wandering in the storm near the passes of Glen Shane. We took them back to Lochshane, but we failed to locate their master. This morn we turned our hunt in your direction after finding his helm on the road to Craigendan. I thought it possible that when he became lost he might have found shelter here. The
dun
is the nearest shelter to where the helm was discovered. Did my friend, perchance, make his way to your gate?”

Suppressing the urge to look at the ceiling, as if she could see through stone and mortar to where de Servian lay resting, she swallowed back the words that were eager to spring forth from her tongue. Oddly enough, her first impulse had been to answer with an untruth. Lies came too easily these strange days. Her heart cried out that this man would take her knight away, so urged her not to let him discover Noel was in the lord’s chamber. Sheer folly. Despite the children making a wish, Noel de Servian was not summoned from the mists by a Kelpie. There would be no hiding him from Lord Challon.

She inhaled slowly to steady herself, realizing she danced on treacherous ground. It was folly to lie to this man any more than necessary. “Aye, we came upon Lord de Servian out in the snow. He had fallen from his horse.”

Guillaume Challon’s eyes were too sharp. He took note of her unease. What a fool she was. This man was a mighty warrior, used to dealing with his powerful brother, kings, and the nobility of three countries. A simple country lass unused to games of intrigue was no match for him. Instead of demanding to know where de Servian was, he merely gave her a faint smile and waited. There was a calm determination in this man of Challon that bespoke they could play games of staring all night and he would always come out the winner.

“Bloody dragon,” she mumbled under her breath.

He arched a brow. “Beg pardon, my lady?” He had heard her. She saw the intelligence flicker in the hazel-green eyes.

“Lord de Servian is in the lord’s chamber. Resting.”

Concern filled his stare. “Night seems to come at midday in this land, but the hour is still early for Noel to be abed. Was he injured in the fall?”

“Nay, I fear an injury he sustained early this year distresses him.” Noticing how her hands shook, she clasped one in the other, determined for him not to see how rattled she was. Skena glanced up as the food and cider were placed on the table. “Come warm your innards and then I will take you to see Lord de Servian.” She started to turn toward the table, but he caught her upper arm and restrained her with a firm though gentle touch.

“I prefer to see Noel now, my lady.” It was a request, yet his soft tone was steel. He was not asking, but commanding.

She stiffened her spine, worried that he might think she had not been doing all she could to save his friend. “Very well, Baron. If you will follow me?”

As they passed, he nodded permission to his men to relax and partake of drink and food. They removed their mantles and sat at the long trestle table. At the great doors, she paused to look back, fearful her servants might do something to reveal how vulnerable Craigendan was. The men were smiling up at the women and—curse them—her ladies were watching these Englishmen with hungry eyes. She was glad Dorcas was on the wall, patrolling. Without doubt, the troublesome woman would prove a problem around these handsome Normans, in more ways than one. Skena really hated leaving the Great Hall. Under her watchful eye, her workers would behave. Without her there to herd them, she dreaded they would respond to attention from the men before giving true thought to Craigendan’s precarious position. Muriel scurried in from the kitchen, pausing to pinch Fenella on the arm, a reminder to pay heed to her forward ways. Skena relaxed concerns. Muriel would see to things.

“Lady Skena…” Sir Guillaume motioned toward the stairs with his hand.

Lifting her kirtle so she would not trip on the steps, she started up. “Lord de Servian had lain on the ground long enough to become covered with snow. My children found him. He spoke his destrier was spooked by ravens.”

“At the passes? Then he had been near to Glenrogha. His guard said they figured he had made it that far just before they lost sight of him.” He shook his head. “He should have ridden his palfrey, not a tetchy destrier, in a winter storm and on terrain unfamiliar. They hold steady and are not so easily spooked. But you say ’tis the previous wound he suffered causing him trouble?”

“He was blae when we found him.”

“Blae?” he echoed. “Beg pardon?”

“Aye, pale, blue from the cold. I took all care in warming him properly, and he seems to be a strong man, able to fight off the worst of being left in the snow. Still, he sickened with fever. I have battled that for three days and nights. He passed the crisis in the middle of the night. He is hoarse. I am giving him boiled vinegar and honey for that and a tansy to help fight the phlegm. Even so, I feel it will be days before he is ready enough to travel with you—”

“There will be no need for him to travel back with me.”

“But he said he was trying to reach Glenrogha to seek out your brother.”

“Aye, that was his plan, according to his men. He wanted to visit Julian before coming here.”

Her hand stilled upon the latch to the lord’s chamber. “Here? Why would he be coming to Craigendan?”

The clear green eyes skimmed over her. “He was coming to take possession of the fief. Noel de Servian is the new baron of Craigendan.”

It took all her willpower for her legs not to collapse under her. She could not absorb the enormity of his statement. She had known from the start the man lying in the chamber represented change. Foolishly, she had failed to discern just how much.

“So, it seems Edward has sent a dragon after all. A foster dragon,” she snapped.

Her hand trembled as she pushed open the door. Inside, a loud voice chattered away. Annis and Andrew were on the bed with Lord de Servian, Jenna nowhere in sight. Her son was telling the knight about Kelpies, while Annis dabbed a damp rag at the resting man’s brow.

Guillaume Challon’s glare nearly turned her stomach sour as he rounded on her. “This is the care you afford one of King Edward’s most trusted knights?”

Skena could not stop from backing up before the angry man. “Baron, I assure you—”

“Here, you child, get away from him,” Guillaume barked, motioning with his hand for the children to get away from de Servian.

Poor Annis, used to sharp commands from her father, almost seemed to shrink in upon herself. Her brown eyes went huge, fright filling them. Skena knew the feeling—the man was a force to behold. Had she not just quailed before the baron? Only, no one dared speak to her daughter in this manner. Skena feared if Annis knew only harsh tones from men of power that she might come to fear them and the marriage vows she would one day make.

Swallowing her trepidation, she took swift steps to block Guillaume from the bed. “While you are brother to the overlord here, I am baroness of Craigendan, and no man shall dare address my daughter in such a rude manner. Am I made clear?”

De Servian’s hand weakly reached up, took the cloth off his forehead, and then flung it into Guillaume’s face. Startled, the man snatched off the rag and tossed it back. Andrew burst out laughing, but quickly ducked out of sight on the far side of the bed. The top of his head popped back up as he peeked to see the baron’s reaction.

“Rein in your temper on my behalf, Guillaume. You look just like Julian when you glower thusly. A dragon breathing fire terrifies small girls.” Noel shifted slightly and caught Annis’s small hand. Placing a kiss on her palm, he said, “I thank you, Lady Annis, for keeping watch over me whilst I sent your mother to finally eat something.”

Skena’s heart melted, watching her daughter experience true tenderness from a man who was a figure of authority. Tears welled up in her throat. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she pressed her bent thumb to her lips, keeping back words wanting to spill forth.

Annis did not move, untrusting of de Servian’s gentleness. Skena held her breath. Finally her daughter leaned forward and kissed Noel’s hand as he had hers. Despite fears and questions that arose from learning that this man was the new lord of her holding, this gesture to reassure her small child touched her deeply.

“Skena, did you eat while you were belowstairs? You were not absented long enough.” Noel spoke with the tone of the new lord here.

How could she have missed this before? Too unquestioning, she merely assumed he was used to giving commands to his men. Never once had it occurred to her that he could be expessing his possession of this keep.

“Nay, I barely got to the table when we were descended upon by a pesky dragon,
Baron Craigendan.
” She did not take the edge off the chill in her voice, letting him know Guillaume had broken the tides that Noel was lord here now. Mayhap she should be more concerned about her fate and the children’s and pretend to have no objections to the situation. Only, it scared her. This man would soon decide what would be her future, would steal the rights of her children.

De Servian watched her without moving, so still she could almost wonder if he even drew air. His silver eyes showed a touch of regret, then he shifted his gaze to his foster brother. “Skena, may I speak with Guillaume alone?”

“Aye, Baron. Of course, Baron. Whatever you want, Baron.” She snapped her fingers as she spoke to the children, “Annis, Andrew, come. The baron wishes to speak to his foster brother without pesky Scots underfoot.”