One Snowy Knight (15 page)

“Hardly a concern.” She felt she should be doing something to care for Noel, but could only brush the curls off his forehead with trembling fingers.

“Julian has spoken of Tamlyn’s abilities,” he said from behind her.

Skena turned. “Then you have heard of the kenning?”

“Let’s say many things have altered in my way of thinking since I came to Glen Shane.”

“Have you not seen such in Rowanne?” she asked, finally pulling her hand back from Noel. “She is not as powerful as Aithinne or Tamlyn, but her Ogilvie blood is true. Stronger than mine.”

“Stronger than yours? Mayhap.” The word contained doubt. Sir Guillaume helped her rise to her feet. “What I witnessed this day shows you are very keen. At least…at least where Noel is concerned.”

Ducking his pointed remark, she turned the words back to him. “You failed to answer me about Rowanne.”

“You are perceptive, lady. Nay, I have not seen this in Rowanne, but then…” He shrugged. “Methinks our match will be a good one. I have hopes of this. I am forward looking to wedding in the spring. Julian permitted me to gift her time to adjust to a new marriage, to come to know me. Mayhap I erred in permitting her this time and space. Rowanne is a lady given to shadows. She hides so much from me, closes herself away. My lady guards her secrets closely. Never once have I touched the closeness that you shared with Noel today. I can only hope someday to share the same magic with my lady.”

“You are a good man, Guillaume Challon.”

“For one bastard born?” There was challenge to his handsome face.

She shrugged. “Scots set little store in such things. I have a bastard half sister, and wish she were half as good as you.”

“You took his pain, did you not? I do not understand how, but saw. He never felt the knife or the hot iron because of you,” he spoke his amazement.

Skena’s head ached, so intensely, she just wanted to crawl off somewhere and rest. “Should we not shift him to the bed?”

“Aye, I was waiting until he rouses.”

“Let us see if we can move him whilst he still feels the pull of the potion. I can get him to drink another tansy, and then he should rest through the night.” She softly touched his bare shoulder. “Noel, can you awaken? Noel?”

His eyelids lifted, the poppy’s effect clear in the unfocused eyes. He gave her a weak smile. “Skena…I dreamed—”

Fearful of what he might say, she cut him off. “Can you go to the bed?”

Guillaume aided him to his feet and in walking, while Skena scurried to the table to mix another potion to ease his sleep through the night. Her hands shook as she carefully measured out the concoction and then carried it to him.

Sliding under the cover, Noel leaned on one elbow. Accepting the cup, he sighed in resignation. “One last time. Tomorrow sees the end of mud and stump water. I need to be up and about.”

And assuming control of Craigendan.
Skena heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them. Reining in, she forced herself to show no reaction to the statement as he drained the cup. He was the new lord here; it was only natural he would want to quickly set about to stake his possession. There would be no opposing it. This was something she would have to accept. The uncertainty, nonetheless, left her scared where that would leave her and the children.

“Rest. Your body has been through a lot the past few days. Allow it to heal,” she managed to say as he handed the empty cup to her.

As if sensing her reticence, he caught her wrist as she went to turn away. “Everything will work out, Skena. Trust me.”

Skena did not want to, but her eyes lifted, compelled to meet his. As she stared into the spellbinding depths, she wondered had he shared her visions? If so, did he recall them? She gave a short meaningless nod, too confused and fearful to say more.

Going to the fireplace, she added a peat to the fire. She paused, the scent of the flame evoking the images of the balefire, making the dream suddenly stronger in her mind. Odd, she knew fantasy was naught more than mists shaped from her desires, and yet, images remained as vivid in her memories as if they had really happened. Her body thrummed as she recalled how he had touched her under the apple tree.

Tired, shaken, Skena went to unroll her pallet in the corner near the fire. She only wanted to lie down and try to gather the pieces of herself, repair the devastation that the kenning and Noel de Servian had brought to her heart.

Guillaume, at the bedside checking on Noel, glanced up and frowned. “What are you doing, Lady Skena?”

Skena paused, putting her hands on her hips. “Lord Challon, I am not feeble witted, a serf, or a child. I have lived a score and six years without having Englishmen question my every move.”

Instead of taking umbrage at her challenge, he flashed a grin. “Ah, if you Ogilvie women think we men of Challon are vexing, can you not imagine how troublesome we find you ladies? I assume you plan to seek your rest on that pallet like a servant? Noel would not like that you humble yourself so in order to care for him. Surely, there is a small bed that could be brought in for you?”

Skena gave him a tired smile. “You will find Craigendan is a very poor fief, my lord. Your king did no boon in granting it to de Servian.”

“Edward never meant it as a boon. Our lord monarch punishes the men of Challon for daring to raise rebuke against permitting the madness that took place at Berwick,” he informed her.

Skena’s heart nearly stopped. So Noel was being punished along with the other Challon men. A bubble of hysteria rose within her. She tasted oily bile in the pit of her stomach. “Punishment? Does de Servian ken this?”

“He has not spoken such, but I am sure he is aware. He saw Julian and Damian in August at Berwick.” Guillaume read her disheartened expression. “Please, do not perceive disappointment that this was the reason for Noel’s coming. Julian has never viewed his being sent here as anything but a blessing. We are not young men, my lady. We have long wearied of war and its aftermath. The beauty and remoteness of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach provide a haven for tired dragons to lick their wounds and heal, find something of value worth living for. As to this fortress being poor, Noel was granted funds by Edward to refit it with all it needs. Whatever else might be required, well, Julian is a very wealthy man. Having the Earl Challon for an overlord can see many things to Craigendan’s betterment. As soon as Noel is up and about, he will quickly see to the refitting of supplies and men.”

The arched eyebrow told Skena that Craigendan’s defenses were not fooling this man. Skena was unable to meet his direct, challenging stare, so she turned back to fixing her blankets. Despite his arrogant highhandedness, she was coming to like Guillaume, respect him. Howbeit, for now she would appreciate it if he just went away and left her to her tattered emotions. Holding it all in, pretending there was naught upsetting her was getting a bit beyond her control.

“About the pallet—” Being a hardheaded male, he started in again.

Skena closed her eyes, fighting the scream of frustration begging to escape. “Lord Challon, please, let me have my distance. This has all been very grinding for me, caring for de Servian for days, fighting for his life, treating his old wounds, and then learning he is the new lord here. Worse, ’tis a punishment. Grant me the ability to ken my own head. I regret if I sound short, but I am bone weary and need rest. Let me seek it without being told how.”

He nodded. “Very well. It was not my intent to make things more distressing for you. Thank you for the care you have given Noel. By your leave, I shall go seek my bed as well. You are right. This day has been grinding.” With that he left the chamber.

Skena picked up the tangled covers and tried to straighten them out, but could not. Too upset, she was barely aware of her actions. Shaking them vigorously, she finally gave up. Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of the situation, she tossed the blankets down to the pallet in defeat and then fell down on her knees. Scooting until her back was in the corner, she half-heartedly dragged the
plaide
to her chest.

Great sobs of anguish welled up inside her, but she could not let them out for fear of attracting de Servian’s attention. Instead, she allowed the silent tears to stream down her face.

She whispered aloud, “Oh, what have I done?”

“Skena,” the soft whisper came, reaching through the dark oblivion.

She jerked awake, instantly fearing it was Noel and he was in pain. But as she opened her eyes, she saw Owen leaning over her. Stiff from sleeping curled up in the corner, she stretched out her numb legs and yawned. “What hour is it?”

“A ways to dawning yet. Sorry to break your sleep. The wolves scratch at the gate again. The run is finished as you wanted. Everything is in ready. Do you wish to start the killing of the wolves this night or wait?”

“Never again say the word
wish
to me.” Skena stood up, trying to shake the sleep from her body. “If we wait the chances increase they will find a way in when we are unawares. Go waken Galen.”

“Aye, I will do as you bid,” the lad said and then scurried off.

Skena went to the bed to check on de Servian. He rested partially on his belly and seemed so peaceful. Placing her hand to his back, she smiled when his flesh felt cool to the touch. He was a strong man. He would heal now the poison had been purged from his body.

She was not sure how love could grow so strong so rapidly, when she scarcely knew him, but as she caressed his hair, she ached with the emotions rising in her. “Oh, what a stupid fool I am,” she whispered, before turning away.

Skena untied the lacings at the side of her kirtle and pulled it over her head just as Dorcas entered the small room off the side of the kitchen. She rarely welcomed dealing with Dorcas, but she particularly lacked enthusiasm for a confrontation when Muriel’s daughter wore that expression. It boded ill. Since Angus’s death, Dorcas was dissatisfied with her lot in life and spoiling for a fuss; she reveled in vexing Skena at every turn. Skena paused to exhale resignation. Offering the woman a cool look of dismissal, she laid her gown neatly on the bench.

“Off to play little soldier?” Dorcas asked in a snide tone. She strolled closer, her eyes judging Skena’s appearance, finding fault as always. “You have lost weight, Skena.”

Skena did not stand on manners. Dorcas never did. Why should she? “And you have gained it.
Plump
is the word that comes to mind.”

“You—” Dorcas’s brown eyes widened, but then she reined in her temper. “You grow more haggard with each passing day. ’Tis hard to believe, Skena, you are only three summers younger than I.”

“Only three? I always assumed you were
much
older. I figured that is why you are getting a second chin, eh?” She chucked her under the jaw to add to the insult.

Dorcas slapped Skena’s arm away from her. The wild look in her eyes said she was considering slapping Skena’s face, too.

“Go ahead, Dorcas. Hitting the lady of the keep is a flogging offense. Of course, I will not wait for that. Do it, and I will knock you on your
plump
arse. I am thinner, aye, but it has gone to muscle, while your weight has gone to fat. So just try it.”

Dorcas’s eyes narrowed. “You think you are so wise to curry favor with this English lord.”

Skena shrugged, refusing to defend herself. “Lord de Servian is the new baron of Craigendan. You best soften your tone when you speak of him.”

Dorcas sucked in her belly trying either to appear thinner or stiffen her spine. “You will be sorry, Skena.”

“And how, pray tell? You have no sway here. I do not toss you out into the snow simply because you are Muriel’s daughter. The limited protection afforded you as my lord husband’s leman is gone. Angus is dead,” Skena reminded her bluntly.

“Is he?”

Skena’s laugh of disbelief popped out. “What nonsense is this? Angus is dead. I ken you cared for him, grieve for him, but that part of your life is over. I plan on making a marriage for you come spring.”

“Marriage?” she gasped. “Angus will not like that. He will be displeased you dared try to wed me away to some swine herder,” Dorcas spewed in rage.

“Do not get fanciful. Talking like that people will think you have gone soft in the head because of Angus’s death,” Skena scoffed.

“I am not daft. Cipher on it, Skena. How did we hear Angus is dead? Word brought back by Duncan Comyn, a coward who—by his own confession—never made it to the battle. No man from Craigendan has returned to say they saw Angus dead. ’Tis naught, but Duncan’s worthless word. If a Comyn put forth the night was black, Angus always said he would go check for himself,” Dorcas argued. “Why have you not gone and checked for yourself?”

“I could not leave Craigendan, you ken that.”

“You did not even send a messenger to make sure, or see if his body could be brought back for burial here.” Dorcas moved closer to press the point.

“Who was I to send? Galen? He is too old for the trip. Owen or Kenneth? They are little more than children.” Skena went back to pulling on the worn, woolen kirtle and then the short mail habergeon over that.

“Methinks you do not want Angus to come back. Why you little mind if he is dead or alive.” Dorcas stepped before Skena, blocking her from reaching for the surcoat.

“He is dead. He would have returned long before now if he were alive.”

“Would he? To you?” Dorcas sneered. “A woman who could not care less? Who already has another man in her bed?”

“Dorcas, I am sorry you still grieve for Angus, but do not allow it to rot your mind—”

“Oh aye, I grieve. I was more a wife to him than you e’er were. You were naught but wife in name only.”

Skena was tired of this. It was always the same in dealing with Dorcas. She went for the throat to put the matter to end. “True, but name is what matters most, does it not?”

Dorcas flinched, her body vibrating with fury. “Go ahead and waggle how fate has favored you instead of me from birth. But Angus is alive. Mark my words. I’d ken it in my heart if he were dead.” She clenched her fist to the center of her chest. “They say William Wallace is hiding out in Selkirk Forest, gathering men to him. You ken how set Angus was to ridding Scotland of the English. I am betting that he and the rest of our men that survived Dunbar went to join Wallace.”

“You waste time with wishes, Dorcas. Angus is not coming back. Ever. Learn to make the best of it. When the weather turns, I will seek to make a marriage for you.”

“Angus will be furious to find you married me off while he was away. You do not have the right.”

“Aye, I have that right and there is little you can do about it,” she countered. “I took you into Craigendan when you were in need because Muriel asked it.”

“I have as much right to Craigendan as you—” she started with the old argument, only to be cut off.

“I permitted you to interfere in my marriage to Angus, because that was what he wanted. And whilst I did not love him as mayhap he sought, few marriages of the nobility are made because of love. But respect, honor, trust—those are things people live by. You and he did me a wrong, but I put up with it. No longer. I have had enough of your selfish ways, your constant attempts to undermine my authority here. It ends now. Angus is dead—”

“He is not! You will regret this day when he comes back.” Dorcas’s voice rose as she issued the threat.

Skena went on as if Dorcas had not spoken. “We must get on with our lives as best we can.”

“Get on with our lives? Is that what you are doing? Trying to win the attention of this English lord? What makes you imagine you could please him any better than you did Angus? Think I could not turn his head? Then mayhap you will not be able to arrange a marriage for me because the Lord de Servian will want me here. Why would he want some frigid, skinny woman such as you, when he could have a young wife without bairns hanging to her kirtle’s tails? One who would do more than lie in bed like a stick of wood?”

Skena slowly sucked in a breath to prevent Dorcas from seeing her words had hit target. Had she not fretted over the same problem? Only, the concern was magnified now because the bond was in place. To watch as de Servian took a wife, placed her as lady of Craigendan, would be too hard to bear. She would not survive.

Skena tightened the belt around her waist with a hard jerk. “Well, you best start learning about herding swine, lass, because if I am too old for de Servian, you being seven summers older are near hag.”

“Seven!” she gasped. “’Tis only three.”

Skena shrugged. “Sorry.” She picked up the mantle and swung it around her shoulders. “I tend to forget. Mayhap you should wash your face in the morning dew on May Day. ’Tis spake it makes you appear younger.” Picking up the quiver with arrows and the bow, she headed for the door.

“Skena, beware. Angus is not dead,” Dorcas called to her back.

Skena did not slow, refusing to give her the satisfaction that the words sent a chill up her spine.

Outside, snow crunched under her boots as she made her way to the postern gate. Galen stood holding a torch, waiting with Owen and Kenneth. Sparing them little thought, her eyes skimmed up and down the run they had hastily constructed. Over the height of a man’s head, the structure was a scavenged mix of boards and woven tree limbs, yet appeared sturdy, adequate to hold two wolves long enough for her to loose arrows into them. Skena gave the interior a quick inspection, noting the enclosure they created for her to hide in near the door. She could open the gate to let in a couple wolves, then lock herself into the blind. From its protection, she should be able to fell the beasts with ease.

The horses in the stable were fussing, one or two even trying to kick their way out of their stalls, alarmed by the scent of the pack. She glanced up at the bright, full moon overhead. A killing moon. She inhaled a deep breath and held still, attempting to quash the fluttering inside her stomach. Facing the wolves would not be simple. Only, Craigendan was still hers…for now. She could do this. It would be a straightforward chore of just letting them in and picking off one at a time. She still needed to know she had some measure of control in her life.

“Let us make done of this.” She opened the end of the pen. “You poke at them with the spears. Keep them from jumping over the fencing.”

Galen frowned in disapproval. “Skena, mayhap you should go seek help from the Lord Challon.”

“This will be over in a thrice. On the morrow they will take Craigendan away from me. This land is mine, my heritage, and ’tis being given away to another without a ‘by your leave’ from me. I am lady here still. And no Englishmen, no Dorcas, nor a pack of thieving wolves will rob me of it. I may have to give up Craigendan. So be it. But it will be in a time of my choosing and in my own way. Until that breath, I am lady here and this keep runs by my will, my command.”

Galen gave her a crooked smile. “Brave talk, Skena lass. ’Tis that damn Ogilvie blood in you.”

“Let us see end to this.” She lifted her chin to reinforce her order.

The old man gave her a nod. “Aye, my lady.”

As she entered the pen, she pulled up abruptly. From the outside it appeared larger, mayhap even too big for her purposes. Inside it seemed a lot smaller. She choked back the sudden rise of panic, feeling the crude walls close in on her. Facing the wolf in the open with a sword had been one thing. Bringing down two with a bow and arrow in a pen where she stood behind protection was an entirely different matter, a simple matter. So she told herself. Reaching for that confidence, she strode the length of the run going to the postern door.

As Skena neared the end, she saw that Galen had already removed all the swords but one. The door rocked from at least two wolves digging on either side of the remaining broadsword. The blade vibrated from the force of the wolves’ constant pressure. She considered if she could not just stand and watch until they finished digging their way under and then drive a sword into them when they pushed through. But that would leave her out in the open. Conceivably both could shove under at the same time, and she would have to deal with two half-starved animals. Memories of the wolf’s teeth snapping at her throat, the scent of his blood, flashed to mind. So real, she could almost taste the coppery scent.

Forcing back the recollection, she set the quiver of arrows and the short bow inside the trap, and then went to remove the sword. Taking hold of the hilt she rocked it back and forth in the frozen ground until it loosened. The wolves jerked back, but the yipping not far away said they were still near the curtain wall. Their hunger was driving them to be bold. A quick release, which nearly sent her tumbling backward, saw the blade pull free. She leaned it inside the trap next to the quiver, ready should she need it.

All she had to do was unbolt the postern gate, swing it open, and allow two wolves in. Once they were inside she could slam it shut, then step into the blind and close the crude door over it. There were two slots through which she could aim the arrows.

“Simple as mincemeat tarts.” Taking a deep, steadying breath, she yanked the heavy bolt back.

Just as it was all the way to the side, her eye was distracted by someone standing at the top of the stairs to the boulevard. Though moonlight was to their back, it was clearly a man, not one of her women pretending to be a soldier. As she stared, almost held in thrall, a chill shuddered up her spine. Little paying attention to the postern door being hammered by the wolves, she stilled and her heart stopped. He started down the stairs, then paused as he stepped into a silvery shaft of light, just enough to cast his face in half shadow.

The world about Skena spun.

Angus.