One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  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.”

&nb
sp; 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.

  “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.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “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 h
er 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.”