One Snowy Knight (11 page)

She could see the children were confused by the harsh sound of her voice, so laced with vehemence. Annis leaned over and kissed de Servian’s hand again, then climbed down off the bed. Andrew pursed his mouth and was slow to come, not happy about leaving
his
knight.

“Come, children, hurry. We would not want to risk angering the baron.” Skena grabbed the children’s shoulders and pushed them to the door. She paused before closing it, looking at the two very handsome men, but really only seeing one.

“Bloody dragons.” She slammed the door with her full fury.

Guillaume watched the lady of Craigendan herd her two small children out the door. With a parting glance back, she closed the door—noisily—leaving them alone. “By God, she is just like these other women of Ogilvie blood.”

Noel weakly pushed up to lean his shoulder against the cross boards of the bed. “Oh, and pray tell, what are these Ogilvie women like?”

“Ready to cut your liver out and feed it to you in big pieces.” But there was a smile on his friend’s mouth.

“From that expression on your handsome face I would adjudge such is not entirely a bad fate.”

“Not entirely, though there are times. They are headstrong, used to rule, resent the bloody hell out of English invaders—”

“And beautiful,” Noel added. “I briefly met the Lady Tamlyn and the Lady Aithinne back in August. Both Julian and Damian pretended indifference toward them before Edward. I assumed that was merely for show. It would never do for the king to know that they value their ladies.”

“Lady Skena does not exhibit open defiance quite so strongly. Likely, her being a widow sees her used to accepting a man’s rule. Of course, Rowanne was married before, but I fear in this instance it only fostered her rebellious spirit. They speak my betrothed planted a knife in her lord husband’s chest one night, then stood and watched him die.”

Noel’s head snapped back, startled by Guillaume’s allegation. “Surely, you jest?”

“I warn you, my brother. These women of Clan Ogilvie are a breed rare, a law unto themselves. And take heed, there is little doubt they are witches.”

Now Noel did laugh. “Trying to tweak my nose? This is a mischief I would expect from Simon, not you. He was always the one to enjoy a jest. You remained the rock for Julian.”

“Nary a jape—a caveat. Be forewarned, these females are supposedly descended from a race of witchwomen who long time ago were said to have the ability to turn into catamounts. While I have not had chance to witness such, they do display the ability to know things beyond a normal range. You recall how Damian spoke of the kenning, a gift from his Scottish mother? Well, ’tis the same. His mother came from Ogilvie blood, likely where he gets it.”

“I shall ponder about this later when I am not so tired and my head ceases this dull throb.” Noel sighed in exhaustion.

Guillaume arched a questioning brow. “What are you going to do with the lady and her children?”

“I owe the children my life; I owe Skena,” Noel said flatly. “Still, the situation is complicated, which sees many a pitfall ahead of me.”

Guillaume pulled a chair next to the bed and sat. “How so?”

“A flock of ravens near the passes of Glen Shane spooked Brishen.”

“Queer moody birds. They seem to guard the passes.” Guillaume eyed him. “You will find Glen Shane…different, odd. The folk are good, but their beliefs, their ways can cause pause. Give the people a chance. While Edward sent us here as nary a blessing, we have been fortunate in making a home in this Northland. I was delighted to hear the news you were assuming control of Craigendan, as I know Julian is.”

“I am pleased to have him as my overlord. We have been warriors too long, my friend,” Noel said solemnly.

“So how did the children and Skena save your life?”

“Brishen ran. My back slapped against the cantle, hitting an old wound that is not healing right. Then I fell. I cannot say how long I lay there, unable to rise, with the snow covering me. The children slipped off from the fortress because they swear they heard someone they call The Cailleach whispering to them to follow.”

“The Cailleach, a crone goddess, lady of winter to these Scots.” Guillaume nodded, familiar with the lore.

“I may have to give an offering to their goddess then. Had the children not followed the call, they would never have found me. I was too off the beaten path; no one else would have come. My fate would have been a very cold end.”

“Lady Skena mentioned there was a problem with your back. Pray what is it?”

“Near the end of the battle at Dunbar, I took a sword through the split in my mail. ’Tis not healing right. I lose the power to grip in my right hand.” Noel held up his hand and flexed it, checking the numbness.

Guillaume pushed away from the chair. “Let me have a look see.”

Noel turned so his back was to his friend, the muscles burning with each shift.

“Merde!
That’s blood red.” Guillaume touched his fingers to the angry flesh. ’Tis hot. Noel, we need to deal with that without delay.”

“Skena said the same thing. Methinks she was hoping to get me past the worst of being exposed to the cold before she went gouging on me.”

“I notice you speak of her not as Lady Skena, but in the familiar.” Guillaume prodded with his words and his fingers.

Noel hissed in pain. “Enough. Any fool can tell it festers. I rot from the inside out.”

“Aye, it’s clear something remains behind, poisoning your flesh. Sorry, my friend, we needs must draw the baneful corruption to the surface, lance it, and then cauterize it—done as soon as we can fetch the items needed. It shan’t be merry. Of course, from that parting glance the Lady Skena gave you, she should enjoy taking a knife to your wound. I infer you failed to inform her you were the new lord here.”

“You gather correctly.”

Guillaume stopped his examination. “Why had you not told her?”

“There are complications that will have to be addressed. I was not feeling well enough to deal with the repercussions.”

“And that being?”

“That the man who did a fair job of running me through at Dunbar was Angus Fadden, Baron Craigendan.”

Guillaume sat down hard. “I can see where that might muddy the waters.”

“But there is more.”

“More?”

“Oh, aye. As the battle was winding down, we trapped a large group of Scots and disarmed them. Fadden slammed into one of my squires, grabbed his sword, and ran him through, then came at me from behind as I dismounted. The blade sought the seam in the mail, slicing into the side of my back.”

Guillaume’s face darkened as he showed comprehension. “Ah. You dispatched the coward in single combat.”

Leaning back, Noel nodded. “Aye, I killed Angus Fadden.”

“Still, it was a fair fight. I know you too well. You are as a brother to me, a most honorable man and not one to attack a man from behind. The same cannot be said about the former baron, eh? Plus you were fighting wounded. He had the advantage,” Guillaume pointed out.

Noel gave a weak nod, shifting in the bed to be more comfortable. “Howbeit, will that matter once they learn? I will be the murderer of her husband, the children’s father, in their eyes.”

“Stop such falsehoods. You murdered no one. The baron made his own choices, cork-brained though they were. He was likely too pigheaded to accept defeat. He knew if he attacked you, you would kill him. If he felled you before stopped, then he knew your men would cut him to pieces. One might view Fadden chose to take his own life, but was too cowardly and wanted it done by another’s hand,” Guillaume opined.

“Mayhap.” Noel knew that no matter if it had been the baron’s choice, the end results would be his to bear.

“Well, they say ’tis the season of miracles. The light is the shortest. End of one turn of the wheel, start of a new. Mayhap the blessings of Christmastide shall grant you a fresh beginning as well.” Guillaume exhaled. “We shall get you healed, then I fear there are issues that need addressing here.”

“Issues?” Noel echoed.

Guillaume nodded, rising and going to the fireplace to toss on a couple more blocks of peat. Using the poker, he jabbed at the half-burnt ones to stir the flames. “Most odd, Noel. Upon our arrival we were not challenged. I called out at the gate, demanding admittance in the name of Challon, and we were permitted entrance. No men came close to confront us.”

“You rode under the standard of the Black Dragon. That tends to strike fear into the hearts of all men, not just Scots. They know Julian is their overlord.”

Guillaume merely lifted his brow and shrugged. “Methinks very soon you need to get out of that bed, assume the title of baron, and do a head count of your men.”

“What are you saying?” Noel reached for one of the covers and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“Cipher this. How many men of Craigendan did you take prisoner at Dunbar?”

Noel thought back on that dreadful day. So many dead or dying. One of the images he wished he could exorcize from his memory. The ugliness seemed forevermore burned into his soul. “Two score, mayhap a few over. Why?”

“And what happened to them?”

“Edward had them sent to Edinburgh Castle and then to England. Tides came most were trampled under horses as traitors. Why should their fate be of question to you?”

“Methinks the
men
on the boulevard are likely young boys, naught more. They seem pages and squires, not men-at-arms. You need to take complete stock of your new holding. If you require soldiery, we can pull some from Lochshane and Glenrogha until spring. Once we have a tally of Craigendan, then we can refit to see your holding is secure. The Comyns and Campbells both craved to get their hands on this place. Julian is keeping close eye on Duncan Comyn, after his brother Phelan tried to kill all in the Challon party when they returned from Berwick.”

“Rumors reached Berwick of the attack and that Phelan Comyn was left dead in the aftermath. Duncan had to do some tall talking and groveling at Edward’s boot to keep control of the clan’s holding of Dunkeld. What really happened?”

“Phelan and his men ambushed the party as they returned from Parliament. Damian took arrows in the battle.”

Noel questioned, “Is he all right now?”

“Oh aye, doing very well. He is up and about, working to regain his strength. He will be a father in a few months. So will Challon. Hard to imagine, eh?” A grin spread over Guillaume’s face.

“Methinks they are more than ready for a settled home, a family. So am I,” Noel told him.

“Which brings me back to my original question, which you sidestepped—what are your plans for the widow and the children?”

“Once, long ago, Fate robbed me of my birthright,” Noel admitted, feeling the pain of a loss that had never truly left him.

Guillaume leaned back in the chair. “It also gave you Julian, Simon, Damian, Dare, Redam, and me for brothers though.”

“True, and not for one day did I draw breath without giving thanks for that twist of life. I have been blessed, I fully know.” Noel paused, fighting back old emotions. Oddly, he had gone through much of his life without tasting the child’s sorrow, the sense of losing everything. Being here in Craigendan seemed to have let loose the old demons. “Long ago Fate took a family from me. Mayhap it now returns what it stole. Skena is a fighter.” He did not add the words
unlike my mother.
“She cares about her children, about the people of this keep. I hope…given time she will come to accept the paths of our destiny.”

Skena tried to keep her emotions under control as she shepherded the children down to the Great Hall. With each step along the winding staircase, it became harder to keep everything reined in. Anger, resentment, and disappointment bubbled in her to the point it was hard to think. Of course, she had no right to feel let down. This knight was nothing to her. A Norman stranger that her children had come upon in the snow. He owed her naught. She would have tended any soul lost in a storm.

A stranger she had lain next to in bed, touched and desired.

Only now, he was the new lord of Craigendan. By the Auld Ones, where did that leave her? What would happen to her children? Panic surged white hot in the pit of her belly.

Trying to curb rising dread, she gently pushed the children through the bustle of activities in the Great Hall. Some of the workers were starting to decorate for Yuletide, coming in the passing of a few days. Somehow, that was jarring in the light that this might possibly be the last holiday she would witness as lady of this keep.

Her steps faltered as she noticed several of Challon’s men were aiding the young women in tying the boughs of holly and evergreens to the columns of the hall. Mayhap she should not resent this. The women of Craigendan would need to take husbands soon. And she certainly could not cast the first stone over the fact that their gazes had fallen upon Englishmen. Had she not desired de Servian?

“That was before I knew he was the new baron,” she muttered.

Seeing Jenna, she made a beeline to her. “Take the children to Nessa. Ask her to see they stay to their rooms for now.”

Jenna frowned, her eyes worried. “What is it, Skena? Has something happened?”

“Could you please do as I ask?” Skena snapped, though she instantly regretted her harsh tone. “Forgive me, dear friend. I am…troubled.”

Jenna nodded. “I see that. I will take the lambs to Nessa. You need not fret over them.”

“Skena!” Owen rushed into the hall, and then pulled up seeing Challon’s men all about. He hesitated, swallowed hard, but then came forward to her. “Skena, you needs must come.”

Skena trembled as she tried to contain the emotions threatening to swamp her. The whole bloody summer she had worked so hard. And for what? For an English lord to come in and assume control of her keep? Glancing down at her shaking hands, she nearly grimaced at the rough skin. They appeared more the hands of a serf than a lady. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from rattling apart.

“Skena, are you well?” Owen asked.

She gave a short humorless laugh. “Oh aye, I could not possibly be better. Come, let me handle whatever needs sorting out so I may find a nice, dark corner in which to collapse.”

Owen looked perplexed. “Are you tired?”

“Tired?” She nodded. “Tired of life, my young friend.”

Hurrying to the tally room, Skena snatched up her work mantle and left the hall before anyone could stop her. She was at the end of her tether and was unsure she could handle much more without collapsing into a heap and crying. She was worn to a frazzle from nursing de Servian for three days. Now to learn this man she had cared for would rob her of Craigendan, steal her children’s heritage, was beyond what she could deal with.

She followed Owen through the inner ward and then into the bailey. As she spied the stables, she had a sense of where he was heading. To the postern gate. She glanced around, searching for the guard set on the back entrance.

“Where is the sentry posted on the gate?” Skena asked in a cross tone, not intended for the lad, but for the woman who had abandoned her duty.

He paused before the metal-plated door and shrugged. “Dorcas.”

The name was explanation enough. Skena’s mouth set in a frown. Why had she not hazarded a guess? The bane of Skena’s life, Dorcas was always at the heart of any problem in Craigendan. After Dorcas’s husband died of a wasting sickness, nearly six years ago, Skena had been forced to take her in. There had been no turning her back on kin. At this late day, she was not sure if she regretted that rainy morn when Dorcas came to Craigendan, or had grown to accept it as an odd blessing. Within a fortnight of her coming, Dorcas had lured Angus into her bed. Skena misliked how Dorcas had single-mindedly set out to achieve that aim. As time passed, she had been silently relieved that Angus spent his nights elsewhere. Howbeit, it rankled he had chosen Dorcas for a leman. Worse, it undermined Skena’s position. Dorcas felt she did not have to take orders from Skena, that her place in Angus’s life furnished her privileges the other women of the keep were not afforded. Her insolence only grew with each passing year.

She should have found some villein from Clan Campbell or Clan Comyn to take Dorcas to wife by now and been done with her. One less headache she would have to deal with. That thought brought a smile to her lips. Oh aye, a husband from either would do well to unload Dorcas upon; then the aggravating woman could cause them mischief and leave Skena in peace. Would serve the troublemaker well if Skena wed her to a swine herder; see how the wench with airs above her station would fare then. Skena had never challenged the situation while Angus had been alive, and, at times, secretly was grateful that his interests had been fixed elsewhere. In a peculiar way she grudgingly felt Dorcas had earned her elevated status. Well, Angus was long gone. The protection he gave Dorcas’s mischief-making ways had worn thin.

“The winds of change blow around us all, Dorcas. It may be the last thing I do as the lady of Craigendan, but I will find you a fitting husband. You can bloody well wager your silver buckle on that,” Skena threatened under her breath with a dram of glee.

Owen’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Beg pardon, Skena. After that sickness last month made my ears swell, I do no’ hear so well. Muriel said it takes a while for them to get better.”

“Naught for you to concern yourself about, my fine lad. We need to build a narrow run, high enough the wolves cannot easily jump over, and with a blind to protect me. We will let in one or two, and I can pick them off, whittle the pack down. It needs to be out to about here.” She drew a line in the snow with the heel of her boot. “Long, but tight, so they cannot turn around easily.” As she came around his right, she spotted what had been his immediate concern.

“See,” he pointed, “they made a big hole at the bottom corner, enough for a snout to push under. Much more, Skena, and they will get in.”

“Oh aye, this night if they are not stopped.” She looked around for something to prevent them from burrowing under the gate. “Owen, run to the armory. Fetch five older swords, a hammer, two pikes, and a length of rope.”

“Swords? Whatever for?”

“Oh, hurry, Owen. Time’s a wasting.” She gave the lad a push to speed his steps.

Instead of waiting for his return, Skena went to the stairs, which led up to the boulevard. There her ladies patrolled. She grimaced at the weakness of the ruse. They looked precisely what they were—women barded in armor to appear as men. There would be little fooling the Lord Challon if he caught a good sight of them. Of course, mayhap it was no longer her problem, but could be dumped into de Servian’s lap.

“Baron Craigendan, you have damn few supplies, too many mouths to feed, and nearly all belong to women. How do you like those apples,
Baron
?” she grumbled. Coming upon a woman on patrol, she asked, “Where is Dorcas? She was set to watch the postern gate.”

Margaret’s owlish brown eyes blinked from behind the too large helmet. Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “She disappeared after the English warriors came. Said you were inside with an Englishman keeping you warm…” She lowered her lashes. “Sorry, Skena, her words not mine. You ken the sloven.”

“Too well. Go back to patrolling. Keep watch along the walk. The wolves alarm me. They are too bold by half. Tell the ladies to enter through the kitchen tunnel, and change in the covey or the cleansing room. Do not enter the keep direct or the English might spot you for what you are.”

“Aye, Skena.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

Snowflakes hit Skena’s face as she stared through the crenellation at the woods that ran toward the loch. The wolves would be in their den sleeping now, but soon they would come scratching at the gate. She had to be ready to act, but feared the pen could not be built this night. Risking peril, she would have to hold them at bay one more day.

“Skena!” Galen hurried across the ward at an uneven pace, struggling not to slip in the snow. Owen and Kenneth trailed behind him with their arms full of the items Skena had called for. “You scatty female, planning on going to war with the English?”

Skena descended the staircase and headed back to the gate. “Going to war? Aye, in a manner of speaking.” Grabbing one of the swords stacked crosswise in Kenneth’s arms, she drove it into the frozen ground to where the blade covered the small opening the wolves had dug in the snow. It went in only so far, as she suspected it would do, so she took the hammer and pounded it in deeper.

“Smart thinking, lass. Here let me.” Galen grabbed a sword and planted it less than a hand’s breadth from the first one.

They worked until all five were stuck halfway in the soil against the door. It would stop the pack from digging under, or the gate from being pushed open. When that was done, she poked one of the pikes through the metal holder of the crossbar, and drove it in at an angle, slanting behind the swords. Galen saw what she was doing and speared the second pike in from the other side so they formed an X. To give it all strength, she wove the rope through the pikes and broadswords.