One Snowy Knight (12 page)

“Well done, lass. Now no worries the varmints will get in.”

Skena nodded, pleased with her handiwork. “For this night. They will soon give up and seek another weak spot. Each day that passes will only see the threat growing worse. We needs must take other measures on the morrow.”

“They need hunting down, true.” Galen regarded her solemnly. “But we have no men. Mayhap, the Lord Challon and his…” His words trailed off under her scorching glare.

Skena reined in her spiraling temper, not ready to tell Galen that Noel de Servian was the new lord here. Craigendan was still hers. The instant the tides were spoken, she would cease to be the lady.

That was something she was unprepared to face just yet.

She stared at the makeshift barrier set to thwart the wolves from getting in. “Too bad I did not try the same tactic with the bloody English.”

“Lady Skena.” The deep voice of Guillaume Challon spoke from behind her.

Taking off her mantle, Skena jumped. The man was daunting. Word had reached Craigendan that his brother, the earl, was even more unapproachable. In light of that, she should be happy she now dealt with him instead of the Black Dragon.

“Aye, my lord?” she replied coolly.

“Do you have a healer within the curtain?” he asked.

“Our healer died several years past. We depend upon Auld Bessa to help with miseries here. I am sure you know her to be the healer for Glenrogha. Of course, with the snow so deep there is no fetching her. She is too old to travel in this frigid cold. Fortunately, I was raised with her knowledge. Muriel is also adept in healing. Methinks you will find no fault in how I cared for the new baron,” she tried to keep the sharp edge from her last word, but failed.

His brows lifted, but he said naught in reproof. “I am sure you did everything possible to aid Noel to shake off the exposure to the storm. Since I hold this man dear as a brother, I offer thanks for your vigilant nursing. My concern now is his old wound. I examined it and mislike the look. The poison festers and will pollute his blood. We needs must draw the corruption to the surface, lance and cauterize it before that dire fate happens. We dare not delay, but must do it this very night.”

Skena nodded. “Very well. I will go prepare poultices. In the meantime, you should eat and take rest. You had a hard journey.”

“I thank you for your kindness, Lady Skena.” He gave her a faint smile.

Feeling tired, Skena motioned for Muriel to see to the baron’s needs, and then left the room. At the archway, she glanced back at Guillaume Challon. He was a striking man, an imposing warrior. She wondered how her cousin, Rowanne, viewed this knight who would be her lord husband come spring. Gossip came that Tamlyn was pleased with Julian Challon, and already she bred with his babe. Only, Skena fretted about Rowanne. Her cousin’s first marriage had not gone well. Did she view the changes in her life with anticipation and hope, or did dread fill her heart?

Barely aware of what she was doing, she headed down the long hall, winding past the kitchen. Her steps on the stone floor faintly echoed against the walls. At the door to the stillroom, she lifted the ring that dangled from her belt. Her hand shook as she inserted the key into the lock. She frowned, not liking her weakness, wishing she were stronger.

“If wishes were faery lights we would need no tapers,” she grumbled. From the box by the door, she picked up a precious candlestick and touched the wick to the hall torch. “Wishing never helped aught in my whole bloody life. I see no reason to keep wasting my breath.”

Smoke from tallow cups fouled herbs, thus Skena used beeswax candles in the stillroom. She was careful to ration their use. Burdened with men’s chores, her workers had little time to replenish supplies before cold weather had hit. Tilting the candle, she allowed three drops to hit the holder, and then jammed the stick’s base into the melted wax. The wax contained ground bits of cedar wood; the cleansing scent with its magical properties wafted through the room.

Skena looked at the long rows of wooden boxes and vessels stored on the shelves, while sprays, garlands, and posies hung from the ceiling to dry. An island of quiet away from the chaos of the keep’s everyday life. The enclosed room generally offered a respite. She loved the solace found here, relished the heady perfumes of plants and worts, their fragrant sensuality cosseting her mind and opening her senses. This time, those soothing scents brought no tranquility. Badly needing that gentle renewal of her spirit, she tried to reach out with the kenning and touch the room’s fey enchantment that had always before calmed her soul.

She failed. Too much was pressing inward on her mind.

“I ken the right worts to rid the
dun
of fleas, but I neglected to learn the charm to cure a dragon infestation.” Walking to the table, she told herself everything would be all right. “It has to be,” she whispered in the stillness. No reply came from the shadows. “Nor did I expect one. The Auld Ones have better things to do than fash over the likes of this lass. ’Tis up to me to find my path in this life—and without the aid of wishes.”

And for a moment she almost believed that. Then fierce emotions curled through her insides like a writhing snake. Flinging herself onto the table, she broke down, crying for the first time since this nightmare year had started. Tears were useless. They changed naught. Only, she was
so
weary. Not eating enough, rationing the food they would need for the coming months, she was worn down by all the burdens of seeing the fortress prepared for the long winter.

As the drought had scorched the land, crops shriveled and water dried up in the burn. Come harvest, they had not reaped enough to meet the tithe to their overlord, let alone sustain the people of Craigendan through the approaching months. Dread over what would come down upon their heads, due to Angus’s rebellion against the English king, had haunted her every step. As the daylight grew shorter, there had not been time to cut the full stores of peat. The apples were smaller, scarcely filling half their usual barrels. Sleepless nights followed. She rarely drew a breath without scores of misgivings.

Now those fears had become reality. There was a new lord of Craigendan. An English lord. This man would want a wife and heirs. What would happen to her and the children? Oh, she had no doubt Tamlyn or Aithinne would take her in and give them a home. Only, Craigendan was the birthright of Andrew and Annis. Her son should grow up to one day be lord here, Annis a lady instead of some poor relation.

Everything seemed to be closing in. Bubbling up inside her, the panic shredded her fragile resolve. Tears came and would not stop. She did not even try to stem their flow.

Worse, she was loath to admit, pain also came from the thought of Noel de Servian. He was sent here by his king. None of this was his doing. He was merely an instrument of his ruler’s whims. Yet, that would not stop him from taking control of Craigendan. How silly, her foolish heart had looked at the handsome man and wanted him, and despite knowing better, had idiotically started spinning dreams.

“Dreams are as useful as wishes,” she choked the words out.

The door pushed open, causing her to suck in her sobs. She swiped the tears away with the backs of her hands. Pretending to be working, she snatched open the lids on boxes of dried herbs.

Muriel shuffled in, closing the door behind her. “What are you about, lass?”

“Making poultices with ground calendula, Scots elm, prunella, and St. John’s wort. I will mix that with myrrh tincture. The Baron Challon thinks we must draw the poison to the surface on Lord de Servian without delay.” As the elderly woman shambled near, Skena turned her head away in a ruse of reaching for the mortar and pestle. She dare not meet Muriel’s all-seeing eyes.

“Stop hiding your face, Skena MacIain. I ken you too well for you to pull the wool over these old eyes.” With a mother’s loving touch, she pushed one side of Skena’s hair behind her shoulder. “This man of Challon upset you. You went upstairs with one expression and came down looking as if your whole life had been destroyed. What happened in those few breaths to set your spirit on this dark path?”

Skena pressed her palms to the table, leaning on it for support. The enormity of the situation slammed into her again, filling her with despair. “We wait no longer for the English king to send a new lord for Craigendan.”

“I thought Sir Guillaume was given Lochshane, that he would wed Rowanne come Beltane?” Muriel asked.

“Not Guillaume Challon. The new lord of Craigendan is Noel de Servian.” Skena fought gritting her teeth over the prospect.

Muriel’s spine straightened at the tides. “So that was his purpose for being out in the storm. Och, Skena, has the man said aught about his plans? What about you and the children? We needed a new lord, aye. We could not go on as we have. You kenned that, lass. This knight will bring needed men—”

“Englishmen, mayhap paid mercenaries,” Skena sneered.

Muriel nodded. “Oh, aye. Englishmen. But men still, Skena. Would you rather the Comyns or Campbells get their hands on this place? You have an English overlord now. You needs must keep peace with him. Times change. The specter of war and famine stalk this land. Make pax with de Servian. Seek out an advantage, thus ensuring our survival.”

“Make pax? Pray tell how? I have naught to bargain with, Muriel. He will claim all, my heritage, that of my children. The only good thing of going through a loveless marriage with Angus was that Craigendan was protected, and that my son and daughter would one day rule here. Otherwise, all this, my whole life has been for
naught.”

Muriel stroked her hand over Skena’s back, allowing her to cry silently. “Angus was nay husband for you. He was a good man, most say, but he was none too smart. He never kenned what to make of you. He failed to recognize the rare gift he had been given. Or mayhap to the point, he did know how fine you were, too fine for the likes of him. You two never found a level ground. That is the past. Turn your eyes to the future. Your marriage to him gave you two perfect children you love very much. More so, it brought you to this point in time. What is behind us molds us, sees us who we are. You are made stronger because of your past, stronger than you suspect.”

“Strong? I stand here rattling to pieces and crying like a bairn,” she choked on her scoff.

“Hush this fashing. You are beyond weary. You have stayed up nursing Lord de Servian, and not been eating again. Stop that. ’Tis important to all here that you keep your wits about you. You must deal with this new lord—”

“You keep saying that. But how? There is naught left with which to bargain. He will turn me out to go begging to Tamlyn or Aithinne for a home for me and my children.”

“And they would take you in without hesitation. I doubt that will come to pass. Bargain with what every woman always barters with.” Muriel moved to the door, leaned out, and called for Jenna.

“Muriel, is aught a matter?” Jenna came in, looking from Muriel to Skena. “Oh, lass, what has happened?”

Muriel snapped, “Nevermind. No time to blether. Have some stew fetched for Skena. Then go to the lord’s chamber and collect a fresh sark and kirtle—not her best, mind. No need to be too obvious about feminine wiles. Men always come faster to fate when they believe ’tis their own notion. Something comely. Also fetch her comb and a ribbon for her hair.”

Skena held her tongue until Jenna left, and then rounded on her former nurse. “What games play you, my dear friend?”

“From the dawn of time men have waged wars upon these isles. They run stag mad, locking antlers, paying little heed to poor females who must stand by and deal with the aftermath. Women learn to wage war as well, though not with sword and lance, but with what the Auld Ones gifted them—their minds and bodies.” Muriel glared back at her with quiet determination when Skena frowned. “Craigendan needed a new lord. You kenned that would happen. Well, we got one. He needs a little fixing, true, but that works to our betterment.”

“Muriel, what are you saying?”

“Do not go simple on me, lass. The man has come to us. ’Tis up to you to bend him to your will,” Muriel insisted.

“What if he has other notions?” Skena bit the corner of her lip to keep it from trembling.

“Give him no chance. His being sick means you are there caring for him, seeing to his needs. Use this time to speak to him, let him learn about you and Craigendan. Offer him something to fix his desires upon.”

“He is a bloody
Sasunnach.”
Skena threw up her hands.

“Tamlyn has accepted her English dragon for a mate. They speak that Aithinne actually had her brothers carry off Lord Ravenhawke and chain him in her bed. Your cousins are smart enough to learn the way of things. Follow their example.”

Skena shrugged doubt. “I do not think I could ever be so bold as to chain a man in my bed.”

“’Tis nary a need. He is already there, naked. Men can be shaped lass through touch, through longing. Those silver eyes watch you with a bottomless hunger.”

Skena sighed in misgiving and dejection. “I could not shape the will of Angus.”

“You ne’er really tried. Closing your eyes and doing your wife’s duty is no way to control a man. I have a feeling with that one abovestairs you will want your eyes wide open. There’s the difference. Trust me.”

Skena felt ready to break down and cry again. Grabbing the sides of her kirtle, she spread the material. “Look at me. A fright these days, I appear like a serf. I would turn no man’s head…let alone someone like him. He could have any woman he wants.”

Muriel clucked her tongue and then smiled. “Then you admit you would like to turn that lord’s head. A step in the right direction. Mayhap the children’s wish was true. They yearned for a braw warrior to come protect us. We were in a sore need. The Auld Ones show you the path, but expect you to fight to make choices a reality.”

Looking at her shaking hands, Skena felt defeat pressing down upon her shoulders. There was no way that beautiful man would want a tired mother with two pesky children. “Oh, how I wish the powers of my Ogilvie blood were stronger.”

“You would witch him to your bidding?” Muriel seemed surprised. “There was a time you would deem such dishonorable.”

“There was a time I ne’er lied either. These dark days call for drastic measures. As you say, a woman must make war with the few weapons granted her. I wish—”

“Take care. Sometimes the Auld Ones enjoy a wee laugh, giving you what you yearn for, but not quite in the manner you envision.”

“If wishes were neeps we would not starve this winter. Och, I give up wishing! ’Tis only for children who still believe in magic.” Putting a hand to her waist, she took a steadying breath. “Oh, Muriel, this is hopeless! I will make a bloody fool of myself trying to woo de Servian’s favor. I have no skills in this.”

Muriel shook her head as she plucked herbs out of the boxes. “You should not adjudge these things by past experiences. You had no desire for a trough-fisted husband, thus not inspired to learn about that side of your nature. Well, you have all the inspiration any woman should desire up there in your bed. Stop fashing and fix your mind on the chore ahead.”