One Snowy Knight (13 page)

“I wish—”

“You just said you swore off wishes. Hold true, lass. This is nary a moment for wishes. ’Tis a time for deeds.”

Skena lifted the dried sprig of verbane to her nose. Inhaling the fruity scent, she closed her eyes. Images of Noel de Servian filled her mind, the longing so acute she wondered if Muriel could be right. Had she not been able to walk in his mind? Never before had she achieved this. Did that not hold significance?

“Oh, bother.” She frowned, running her hand through her long hair. “Lies and wishes. I have had enough of both to last a lifetime!”

“Both are our nature, lass. We seek hope for solutions, and when they do not come, we stoop to lies. Your body tells you one thing. Logic adds its own voice. Only, you feel duty too strongly. You are loyal to a fault, even to a husband you did not love. These are sinister days, Skena. Angus arrogantly followed his fate to Dunbar and paid the price. Loyalty to him cannot be put before devotion to your children, to the people of our clan. Forget the past. Time to face forward and do what you needs must.” Muriel reached up and brushed her hair away from her cheek. “You ken the choices. Go live on the succor of others? Seek the veil and become a sister at some nunnery? Or take a husband. Longshanks was bound to send a man to replace Angus. If he had not, then the Earl Challon would place his own man in charge. Count your blessings, lass, that Noel de Servian is the new baron. Fix his desires upon you. Forge a new life for you both. Stop fashing about Fate being cruel, and count the blessings of the Auld Ones. They gave you the means to save your place here. If you but have the courage.”

“I never had courage like Tamlyn or Aithinne. They could look a dragon in the eye….” She caught herself, realizing her unintentional jest.

Muriel chuckled. “Aye, they have looked at dragons and tamed these English beasties. Do you not see how hard it must have been for them? Reared by a man who allowed them their heads, they ruled their holdings without benefit of a man’s control or advice. You are accustomed to reining in, curbing your wants and needs to what Angus allowed. Compromise, lass.”

Skena felt despair washing over her. “Oh, Muriel, I am scared.”

“A woman’s lot. But we face our fears. We use our wits,” she winked at Skena, “and our bodies, and fashion our lives the best we can. Remember he is not even a real dragon, but a foster dragon.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“’Tis simple. You only seek to make it more complicated than it is.” Muriel hugged her. “’Tis a matter of seeing what is good, and what can be changed, instead of bemoaning things that are not perfect. Nothing is ever perfect. Life is the best we can make of it. You are stronger than you ever see. A late bloomer, you grew up under Angus’s iron will. Seize your inner power. Stop looking at your hands, Skena. Salve will heal them. Believe me, a man does not inspect a woman’s hands when he wants her. You have the chance, lass, to turn fate, shape how things will go for Craigendan. Mayhap even find something more in life than you ever expected outside of dreams.”

Open your heart, Skena, and make a wish with the trust of a child.

Forgetting her lack of faith in hoping, Skena closed her eyes and opened her heart, but wished with the trust of a woman wanting something she had never had.

Love.

Holding a wooden box full of everything she would need for lancing de Servian’s back, Skena marched up the winding staircase. It rankled that Guillaume Challon had sent for her, ordered her immediate presence as if she were naught but a servant.

“Bloody dragons think they are special. The world trembles at their feet. Ha! I have a mind to give this one a proper set down,” Skena grumbled to herself, trying to build her courage.

Muriel trailed behind her, carrying a stack of linen cloths. “Lass.”

The woman’s one word caution caused Skena to frown. Pausing on the step, she glanced over her shoulder. “Muriel, did you say aught?”

Muriel’s laugh was mocking. “Cease the mummery. I am the one hard of hearing these days, not you. You are just hardheaded. Keep your eyes on the goal, Skena, not on your wounded pride. Men are an arrogant lot. Methinks these Norman lords of Challon are likely worse than most, a power unto themselves. Men such as them give orders offhand; comes natural to them, so they ne’er stop to think how they sound. If you were to beard this dragon about his brisk order, he would be flummoxed you took umbrage. Request or command—’tis the same to them. They expect to be obeyed. Battle for the things that matter most; ignore what you cannot change or what has little true and lasting value.”

“How did you get so wise, my friend?” Skena offered Muriel a smile.

Despite silver kissing her thick red hair, Muriel’s soft brown eyes shone with an eternal beauty. “By making too many mistakes in my long life. I but try to save you from the same missteps.”

Skena leaned over and placed a light kiss on the elderly woman’s cheek. “Thank you, dear Muriel. I remain indebted to you for being my guide. You are a second mother to me.”

“And you are the daughter I wish I bore instead of that ruddy slattern I gave life to. I swear she is a changeling, switched at birth. Dorcas cannot be of my blood.” Muriel’s mouth set as she thought of her only child, who she wished to perdition at least twice a sennight. “Remind yourself what is important and you will do right by us all.”

With Muriel’s sage advice ringing in her ears, Skena banked her temper and entered the lord’s chamber. De Servian, with a
plaide
spread over his legs, sat propped up in bed. Across the room Guillaume Challon poked at the peat fire, stirring it to burn brighter. Skena’s steps faltered. She had to bite her tongue when she saw the stack of extra peat and the pile of splinted boards next to the fireplace. He would need the high wood blaze to make the poker hot enough to properly sear flesh, but she fretted over how much fuel it would use, nearly a week’s worth, she feared.

Muriel set the stack of linen on the end of the bench, harrumphed a reminder to Skena, and then turned to leave. “If you need me, lass, I will be belowstairs playing shepherd.” Her way of telling Skena not to be anxious about Craigendan’s women and the English soldiers, that she would keep a watchful eye on everything.

“Ah, there you are, Lady Skena,” Guillaume remarked needlessly, simply so he could pass along the hint of rebuke in his voice.

At first, he barely spared her a glance. Then his head jerked back as he actually took her measure. Skena set her teeth to keep from replying, afraid he was going to scold her for taking time to change clothing and make herself more presentable while he waited. His eyes widened and slowly travelled down her body, then back to her face, taking in that she was now attired more in keeping with the lady of Craigendan. He inclined his head in approval, but offered no comment. There was an appreciative glint in his eyes, yet banked, as though he set her off limits. Since this man was to be her cousin Rowanne’s husband come spring, Skena gave him high respect that he was holding to himself, instead of applying the usual ‘out of sight, out of mind’ morals. Men too oft thought they could do as they pleased when away from the watchful eye of their wives or betrotheds. This man of Challon was a riddle, but she pretended not to notice his reaction as she sorted out the herbs and worts, lining them up on the tabletop.

“You have everything needed in ready?” Guillaume inquired.

“Aye, poultices made for drawing, salve for healing and to stop pain, and the mixings for a strong anodyne.” As she began measuring out the various dried leaves and barks into the bowl to grind, Guillaume moved to the table, closely observing everything she did.

His voice was challenging. “What are you plying Noel with, Lady Skena? You said you have no healer. Are you so certain you know what you are putting in the potion?”

“I am careful, my lord. I blend feverfew, willow bark, mandrake, and mawseed in mead as the anodyne for his pain. I have a salve with mawseed as well. We can apply it after the cautery.”

“Mawseed? Poppy?” He lifted the vial and sniffed.

“What some call it. I add in a few drops to free his mind from the intense pain he will feel. ’Tis not enough to harm him.” When he merely stared at her, Skena glared back, and then lifted the cup and drank a measure. “Satisfied?”

Guillaume frowned. “That was hardly necessary, Lady Skena.”

“Lord Challon, poisoning the new baron would hardly serve me or my people well, think you not?” Skena brindled. “As he is foster brother to the Dragons of Challon I ken it would mean my life should harm befall de Servian. I am not a lackwit.”

“Never would I adjudge you as such. Howbeit, people have been poisoned carelessly by measurements of poppy and mandrake.”

“Guillaume, leave Skena be,” de Servian called from the bed. “If you do not cease annoying her, I shall put my knee to your chest and allow her to pour the brew down your throat to prove to you that it’s safe.”

Lord Challon chuckled. “Not in the condition you are in, my friend. Damian took an arrow to the chest and a couple to his thigh in August and recovers still. Even he could best you in a fair fight.”

“Allow Skena to care for me. I could not ask for better treatment than I have received at her hands.” De Servian’s words were soft spoken, but it was clear he would brook no opposition.

Skena added a little more mead to the cup and carried it to the bed. She held it out to de Servian and then waited for him to take it.

“More stump water?” Noel gave her a sensual smile.

Her heart did a slow roll as heat flared in the pit of her belly. The worts and the drink were already starting to affect her, she feared, but that was little compared to de Servian’s sway over her.
Could be something more potent hit my blood, overpowering the drink’s effect.
Oh aye, she was smart enough to recognize it was this man who set that erratic fluttering in her chest. She knew he was baron here now, but that reality did little to stem the desire she felt for the Norman.

“Nay, you should enjoy this. ’Tis mead—cider and honey. It will enhance the effect of the worts, take the edge off your pain. I want this to go as easy for you as possible.”

“And do I get a reward for drinking this witch’s potion?” One corner of his mouth pulled up higher.

Their eyes met as he took the goblet of mead; they were both remembering how he had kissed her the last time she gave him a tansy. He finally raised the cup in a salute, and then drank the contents in three swallows. As he passed it back to her, his pale eyes skimmed over her in the dark green sark. She had left off the shawl she often pinned at her left shoulder, allowing the low, square neck to go uncovered.

“Green becomes you, Skena.” Fires of passion flashed in his smoldering gaze, as he reached out and took hold of her braid. Slowly, he unwound the plait and pulled the white ribbon from the thick mass. “I prefer it free.”

Skena, dizzy and lost to the lure of the silvery depths with the ring of brilliant amber, had to force herself to remember Guillaume Challon watched them. Shrugging, she was now embarrassed she had fussed with her appearance in the hopes of pleasing him. “I merely wanted it out of the way while we worked.”

De Servian’s eyebrows lifted as he dangled the ribbon, silently saying he failed to believe her. His expression softened. Most grey eyes seemed cold, emotionless. Not this man’s. Such concern flickered within their depths. It was hard to hold tight to her anger when she looked at him. Instead, she could only hear the words as he spoke about his mother’s death, see the lingering vision of the battle where he had nearly lost his life.

“Skena, I regret you heard the tides of my being given Craigendan from Guillaume instead of me,” he offered his sincere apology.

Skena felt as if she took a blow to her middle, reminded of what was at stake here. “Oh aye, but then you never had the chance to tell me did you?” Three days and three nights and the bloody man had not seen fit to inform her that he was the new lord here.

“I bear the guilt. Only, I hoped you would come to know me before I had to tell you of the change,” he explained softly.

Her hands trembled, so she hid them behind her hips. “Why? So we could become friends?” she countered.

Noel slid off the bed, taking the cover with him. He wrapped it around his waist, and then stepped to her. “Friends?”

His smile reflecting a jumble of emotions, he reached out and touched the backs of two fingers against her neck where her blood pulsed the strongest. He dragged them agonizingly downward, across her shoulder to the edge of the kirtle’s top, and then along the drawstring, setting off ripples of gooseflesh across her skin.

Flames of desire roared through her. Everything about her receded to shadows as she could only see Noel. Anxious, she spared a quick glance toward Guillaume, to see what he made of de Servian’s attention toward her, yet she could barely pay heed to the other man.

“We can be friends, Skena. I would like to hope for such. In time, mayhap more.” He tilted his head in question. De Servian finally dropped his hand as the door opened.

Owen and Kenneth pushed through dragging a long bench, exactly like the one before the fireplace, followed by Galen. He glowered at the two Englishmen, but then looked to her. “Where do you want this thing, Skena?” The tone in his voice clearly bespoke he took orders from his lady, not these interlopers.

Guillaume ignored that and instructed, “Set it against the other bench so they make a long table.”

Galen’s mouth set as he met the Lord Challon’s eyes, man-to-man, not as a servant to a nobleman. Finally, he turned back to Skena, making evident to all he obeyed no one but her. Skena gave him a brief nod, telling him to do as the Norman lord wanted.

After the benches were pushed together, she set about putting down two covers to make it more comfortable for de Servian. This would be a long process, and she wanted him as tranquil as possible. When she finished, she shooed the lads to the kitchen to fetch hot water. Galen wanted to stay and glower at the Englishman, but she sent him off as well. Ignoring the old man’s set mouth, Skena set tallow cups about to give them more light to work by.

Stepping past her, Guillaume sat before the fire on a footstool, and began to sharpen a long thin blade. Skena watched him for an instant, revulsion spreading through the pit of her stomach, aware that blade would be cutting into de Servian.

Noel paused before lying facedown on the makeshift table, and said, “Wipe that fool’s grin off your face, Guillaume, before I do it for you. Methinks you are too eager to prod me with that pig sticker.”

“Another day’s passing would see you begging me to split that wound open with a dull, rusty knife. ’Tis ugly, getting darker with streaks fanning out from it.”

“Close your eyes and rest for now,” Skena suggested, wanting to see him as comfortable as possible before they started the ordeal. “The potion will soon make you drowsy.”

Pulling down the
plaide
to expose the tender site, she grimaced as she saw it was indeed much darker, the yellow-white pus center more pronounced. Skena swallowed back bile as she picked up the mawseed salve and began covering his lower back. He flinched when she neared the old wound, her fingers tracing the spidery marks radiating outward from it. Sir Guillaume was right. It had to be done now. There was no time to delay. The ‘bloody fingers’ reaching out from the wound site was the poison already migrating into his blood. It would soon kill him if not treated.

Trying to keep her mind focused on her task and not the feel of his hard muscles, how stroking him caused her whole body to knot in hunger, she spoke. “I know it will distress you as I cover the sensitive area, but this deadens the pain. It will help some when we place the hot pads over it.”

Noel gave her a short nod. “Let us be done with the gouging. I have been in bed too many days. There is much that needs handling.”

Guillaume observed as Skena placed the prepared poultices in a large bowl. She saw doubts about her abilities in the bracketed corners of his mouth. “Have you done anything like this before?” he voiced his concerns.

Skena shook her head. “We have not seen any major injury since our healer died. Even so, I assure you I am able to do what must be done.” She met his level stare. “I am stronger than I appear, my lord.”

As if girding himself with the inevitability, he exhaled. It was clear he was not satisfied with her answer, yet was aware he had no choice. He lifted the bucket and poured steamy water into the bowl for her. “Ordinarily, it would take a half score men to hold down de Servian, and they would come away worse for wear, broken noses, bumps to their noggins, mayhap a cracked rib or two. While men enjoy a good fight, I cannot risk my friend wiggling about. If he remains still this will go quickly and can be handled without peril to him. Drugging him would be one way, but that can be unsafe. A pinch too much…” He shrugged.

“We could tie him down, my lord,” Skena suggested.

“Aye, but he could still flinch. A jerk while under the knife puts him in hazard. Another way is to prick a man’s pride. Ten men to hold Noel down.” Guillaume smiled, as he placed her pallet on the floor at the end of the bench. “Or one woman.”

“Beg pardon, my lord?” Skena stared in confusion.

“A trick we witnessed in the Middle East when we served King Edward. A man’s pride will see him accept great pain before he reveals weakness in front of a woman.” Guillaume took his sharpened knife and stuck the blade into the fire. “So call the old woman or that dour man to pass me things as I need them. Your task will be to sit on the pallet and aid him in keeping still.”