One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Noel jerked awake when his shoulder was prodded. Struggling to focus, he finally saw Guillaume stood at bedside. Giving him a grumpy frown, he labored to sit up, moving his stiff, aching body. He glanced around, looking for Skena. Flashes of dreams lingered, so intense they worked to suck him back into their velvet embrace. Truth be told, he wanted to escape to their seductive lure, return to the happiness and perfection he found there. As he worked to hold on to the shards, to remember their importance, this world was already intruding, vanquishing them. Forced to return to this cold reality, his heart felt hollow.

  “Sorry to waken you so early, especially after what you went through, but figured you would want to know something odd is happening,” Guillaume said, watching Noel as he rose from the bed and went to the pitcher on the far side of the room.

  Noel poured water into the large bowl and splashed some onto his face. “What is so urgent you awaken me before dawnbreak? Is it not enough you tortured me yestereve?”

  “You are lucky I ‘tortured’ you. Likely, you would find trouble awakening this morn had I not put the knife to you.” Guillaume studied him closely, judging his condition. “How do you feel? You look none worse for the wear, considering what you have been through.”

  “How do I feel? Tired. ’Tis been a rough few days. Damn coughing bruised my ribs, methinks.” He rubbed his side, flinched when the wound instantly set to throbbing. “The searing naturally burns, but ’tis small compared to the pain I have suffered through for the past sennights. Happily, I seem on the mend. Thanks to Skena and you.” Noel flexed his right hand and for the first time in two months failed to experience even a trace of the numbness that had so troubled him. “In June the sensitivity began. I would get a tingling in my thumb if I moved too sudden. Then it grew to be the whole hand. Each time it was worse. Each time it lingered, taking longer to go away. This past fortnight, at times I had a hard time gripping my sword. All the feeling of deadness is gone. A burn I can handle. I know that will pass. I was truly concerned I might lose use of the hand for good.”

  “No, you would have lost your life. The poison was already spreading from the wound site. We would have come in one morn and not been able to awaken you. I have seen it happen before. I have grown accustomed to your pretty face and would hate to lose it over this….” He held up the half link of broken mail. “A memento to remember the former baron by.”

  Noel took the twisted piece of black metal from Guillaume’s fingers and held it to the candlelight to study. “Odd what a bit of nothing can do to the body. That would have killed me. Most surprisingly, outside the first few poultices I felt no pain. Mayhap it was too much for my mind and it shuttered in some manner.”

  Noel puzzled over the matter. The hot poultices had been distressful, and the agony intensified with each new one, pain building upon pain. He simply could not recall much after that. Just Skena…and the strange dream, which now faded into mist. In this other realm, he recalled staring at her; the longer they remained unblinking in that match of wills, the more cat-like her eyes became. His body bucked as a fragment of that vision bubbled up in his thoughts, suddenly so clear, of his making love to Skena. After endless weeks of reliving the horrors of Berwick each night, that had been a most agreeable way to pass the dark hours of sleep. It pushed him to want to claim Skena so he could spend the coming nights discovering the pleasures of her flesh, not just dreaming about her.

  “Mayhap…” Guillaume allowed his thought to trail off, the vivid hazel-green eyes watching for Noel’s response to what he was about to say.

  “Speak your piece.” Noel soaked a rag in the bowl and then placed the cold cloth to the back of his neck to speed the wakening. “I have never known you to be reticent in saying what bites at your mind.”

  “Very well. Mayhap you felt so little pain because Skena took it for you,” his friend suggested, caution touching his voice.

  Noel snorted a scoff. “What silliness? No one can take pain for another.”

  “I mentioned this to you before, and Damian has spoken of it time and again. I have come to the belief that these Ogilvie women are able to do things you and I would first dismiss. For the better part of a year I have watched them. The experience tends to open my thoughts to accepting they have gifts beyond most mortals.” Guillaume shrugged. “The Highlands are a queer, moody place, Noel. Once you are here for a length, you forget about the world outside of these glens. ’Tis a spot unto itself, far from the boundaries and perceptions of what we have kenned before.”

  “Kenned? You begin to sound Scot?” Noel pointed out.

  Guillaume turned his palm up. “What can I say? I find I am starting to feel Scot. Feel we belong here. Oh, we must still make token obeisance to Edward to retain what we were given here. But this land, the people…the women get under your skin. They have changed me in the few months I have been here. A change I embrace. ’Tis my sincere desire that Edward bends his mind to the campaign against France, sails there, and leaves the men of Challon alone and forgotten in this valley. Permit us to enjoy this peace we finally discover within these glens. Peace that we deserve…we earned.”

  “Peace? Were not Julian and Damian attacked by Scots on the way back from Parliament?”

  “Oh, aye. Only Scots—Grant Drummond and Duncan MacThomas—came to their aid. The people in Glen Shane and Glen Eallach accept Julian and Damian. I find them accepting me at Lochshane. Methinks that approval stems from the people knowing their ladies effect change in our hearts.” Guillaume gave him a knowing grin. “Tell me you have not already started to feel it. You know Lady Skena but days, and yet already you are in love with her. That same immediate power was there between Julian and Tamlyn, but she is a hellcat. She had to hiss and
spit until Julian soothed her. I wish…”

  “Wish?” A shiver rippled up his spine as a fragment of his dream spiked through his blood. Make a Beltane wish. Tossing the cloth into the bowl, Noel dismissed the fey bit of nonsense. He moved to his clothing folded upon the bench and began to dress. “Skena insists we waste time upon wishes.”

  “And what think you? Has not your deepest yearning been answered in Craigendan? A home of your own, a family…if you so choose? Deny you are in love with the lady.”

  “I am not sure of this thing love, a word balladeers sing of so profusely. An elusive creature, at best. Nonetheless, I do feel a bond, a sense of purpose in coming to Craigendan. Fate. Skena is everything I could want in a lady wife, and taking her as such would see me assuming the title of baron on a more level path. As you say, the people shall accept me easier if their lady approves of me. Only…there is more,” Noel ended with a shrug, unable to express how deeply his bond with Skena grew already, how time had little to do with its strength. The specter of fear arose in his mind, concern that this newfound link between them could be shattered like fragile glass if she learnt Angus Fadden had died by his hand.

  “I envy that bond. ’Tis the same with Julian and Tamlyn, and now Damian and Aithinne,” Guillaume said wistfully. “Did Damian tell you how he and the Lady Aithinne first met?”

  “We did not have much time to speak at Berwick. Hard to find a moment of privacy when all of Scotland was crammed into the castle. Julian and Damian both kept a distance from the women whilst they were in the presence of others. Only someone who knew them well would have been aware they cared for their ladies deeply.”

  “They kept wise council. Same as you should remember if you ever come with Lady Skena before Edward. Never allow Edward to see she is valued by you. She then becomes a tool to use against you. You must ask Damian about his ‘courtship’ when you next see him.” Guillaume’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You can also ask him about dreams and wishes. You might find it enlightening.”