One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Skena could not help it; the snigger slipped out. Under the dim torchlight, they made such a bizarre sight, sprawled in the middle of the floor, like some mythical monster with two heads, and four arms and legs. Ella bellowed in pain, thrashing about.

  “Me leg…me leg…You ungrateful wretch…You broke me anklebone.” She tried to lean forward to clutch it, but found it hard because of her fat belly and having to oust Dorcas from practically sitting on her.

  Dorcas pushed up from the snarl of limbs and mantles and straightened hers; the tie was almost strangling her neck. She glared at Skena, her mouth compressing in a frown, as she saw Skena silently chuckled at the silly sight. “I will give you something to wipe that smirk off your face, you stupid cow.”

  Coming in angry steps, she moved toward Skena, only to have Daragh step to block her. He took hold of Dorcas’s forearm, looking down on her. Though Skena could not see his face, she sensed a coiling darkness within this man that terrified her. While she had never considered her sister very smart—cunning, yes, but not smart—even Dorcas should have been able to tell this was a dangerous man, one not to trust.

  “Daragh, stop dragging everything out and have done with it. Now,” Dorcas said, but it was in a suggestive tone, not an order. Yes, while she was none too smart, neither was she stupid.

  He shrugged. “My plans have changed.”

  “To what?” Dorcas braved a clear challenge with her question.

  Dropping her hand, he stepped to the fire to warm himself. “I do not need your tongue to decide how things will go. Keep your teeth closed.”

  Skena did not want to know his plans, but was not one to hide from things. At least, if she knew something of his mind, she could better prepare for what she must do. She swallowed to find her voice, wanting it to sound strong and assured, not slip to reveal the mounting terror rising in her. “And what have you decided, Daragh Fadden?”

  He looked up, flashing a winning smile. “Why, to kill Noel de Servian. What else?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Noel reined Brishen to pause at the crest of the rise. Stamping the ground and fighting against the bit to run, the destrier snorted streams of vapor into the moist air. Off in the distance, Noel could see Craigendan aglow from torchlights, quite beautiful in the pristine snowscape. Contrarily, his stomach twisted into knots as he comprehended what it meant. Something was wrong. The whole time he raced homeward, he fought the gnawing fear that trouble had, once more, reared its sinister head. Somehow, he sensed Skena needed him. He prayed these worries were naught more than insecurities brought on by how deeply he loved her. Once he reached the fortress, surely she would be waiting to comfort him and laugh that everything was fine. The torches illuminating the boulevard bespoke his worse fears were confirmed—danger once more stalked Craigendan.

  “Hiagh!” Slapping the reins back and forth on either side of the stallion’s neck, he drove Brishen onward.

  Images of when he had returned to the fortress and discovered Skena at the bottom of the cellar stairs haunted him. Guillaume held the belief that Noel had foiled an attempt on her life. He shuddered to consider the outcome if he had not returned sooner than expected. He told these dark visions be gone, but images still haunted him, of what might await him at the dun, of him holding Skena’s dead body, of him howling his madness to the skies.

  “Demon hobgoblins, away with you,” he whispered the banishment. “Skena is fine.” Noel had to draw heavily on his warrior’s training to focus on the here and now and not allow his mind to become his undoing.

  The gate rose when the watch spotted him riding hard, allowing Noel to pass through and into the bailey without slowing. His eyes noticed the numerous torches along the boulevard and ballium. It would have been quite festive if not for their significance. He spotted the beautiful Rowanne on the end of the portico, but no Skena. Rowanne’s pale blue mantle gently undulated in the wind; her hands were clutched together in a pose of worry.

  Vaulting from the saddle, he noticed no one was about to take Brishen’s reins. Instead, he dropped the lead to the ground, knowing the horse would stay as he had been trained to do. “What has happened?” he asked, running up the stone stairs.

  Rowanne hurried over to meet him. “We cannot find Skena or the children. We looked. I have the servants searching.”

  “How long?” he snapped.

  Her soft brown eyes expressed concern, and mayhap a trace of guilt. “I am not sure. Earlier, we were working in the sewing room. The children came in and asked permission to go to the portcullis to wait for your return. Skena told them yes, but not to stay outside too long because of the cold. She started to follow after them, only Ella—”

  “Ella?” he snorted. “I mislike judging a person on their form, as God fashioned them thus ’tis not my place to be critical. Only, she brings tales of otherworldly beings to my mind, evildoers. She is a malignant troll in human guise. If it is wrong of me to harbor such thoughts, I shan’t tend an apology. ’Tis my gut’s opinion.”

  Rowanne gave a concurring nod. “She came to Skena and complained of being sick, had her fix a tansy. Afterward, Skena spoke she was anxious about the children and went out to check on them. I withdrew to my room to dress for the evening meal. It was the last time I saw her.”

  Noel’s mouth compressed into a frown. Taking off his leather gauntlets, he slapped them against his thigh in frustration. “When was that?”

  Her eyes strayed past him. “Where is Guillaume? Why is he not with you? Out jesting with his men instead of here when you need—” Her words broke off as Guillaume rode through the gate followed by two men-at-arms.

  Noel was standing two steps below Rowanne. Irritated by her harshness toward his friend, he moved up to the same level, allowing his height and breadth to intimidate her. Rowanne was a tall woman, likely as tall as most Scotsmen, so outside of Guillaume she was unused to looking up at a man. He stood close, using his physical presence to rattle her. She lifted her head in a royal mien, trying to show he failed with the subtle pressure. This woman was warrior born, just like Skena. But then her chin betrayed her, quivering. Noel blinked in shock. She was actually scared.

  “That man you so blithely disdain is one of the best men you will ever find. If you lack the mind to see that and cannot count your blessings, then tell Challon. He can find you another husband. Set Guillaume free. I shan’t have him hurt any more by your cruel ways. Am I made clear?”

  She stared at him, refusing to back away, despite trying to shield her female vulnerability. He saw a contrite flicker in her beautiful eyes, but he could spare her no time. This issue was not settled. They would have at it again, but once Skena and the children had been found.

  “What goes on?” Guillaume came rushing up the steps.

  “Skena is not inside Craigendan,” Rowanne told him. “I missed her, looked, but saw neither she nor the children were within the curtain. I have everyone searching.”

  From across the yard, Elspeth came running. Nearly out of breath when she reached them, she could not speak her tides. Noel knew he would have to wait until she regained it. His hands flexed to prevent him from grabbing her and shaking the words out of the young woman.

  “Beg pardon, my lord. Tracks…many in the snow.” She sucked air again before going on. “Galen follows. Looks as though Skena and the children walked away from the castle. Mayhap Muriel, as well. She cannot be found either.”

  “Why in God’s teeth would Skena be out in this storm with the children?” Noel fumed to Guillaume. “’Tis not like her.”

  Elspeth looked up at him with worried eyes. “There are others, too, Lord de Servian.”

  “Others?” He swung back to her.

  “More tracks. Galen said to tell you two, maybe three sets belonging to women or boys, but another is clearly a man. He tracks them with Kenneth, and said their trail would guide you. He said hurry.”

  Guillaume let out a snort. “God’s wounds, half the bloody castle is outsid
e the pale in a blizzard? What nonsense be this?”

  “Ella and Dorcas are gone also,” Elspeth added.

  “Perchance they went after Skena, to help her search for the children?” Rowanne suggested.

  “If you believe that, Lady Rowanne, then you are a bigger fool than I already suspect you are.” Noel did not take the time to hear her answer, but hurried back to Brishen. Leading the horse across the bailey, he headed toward the stables.

  “Noel, wait! Take time to prepare,” Guillaume called from behind him. “We need torches. Night falls. It will be impossible to follow without lights.”

  “Fine, gather torches,” he called over his shoulder, but did not slow. “Have Rowanne prepare whatever else we need. A wagon full of furs, warming stones. Tell Cook to keep hot water in the ready and warm the stew.”

  He eased Brishen through the postern gate, pulling up as he spotted a muddle of tracks. “Bloody bleeding hell.”

  Footprints were upon footprints, nearly obliterating the ones that had passed before. Galen’s set clearly followed along one side and Kenneth’s to the other. There seemed to be tracks of two to four people, then the children’s and Skena’s. In the blinding snow, he could not tell if the man and the women were following the twins or leading them away. Neither prospect bode well. Worse, the snow was so heavy it was already covering them. In a short time it would be impossible to tell anything about who passed this way. Even the impressions created by Galen and Kenneth were starting to fill in. Luckily, the old man had set out to follow them when he did.

  “Noel, wait!”

  Noel heard Guillaume calling after him, but he did not slow.

  Skena’s legs nearly buckled under her, stunned by Daragh’s stating the very thing she had come to suspect—that his purpose was to kill Noel. To avenge his brother’s death? Somehow she doubted that, but then she knew so little of the man it made it hard to decide. Angus had once planned to foster Andrew with Daragh for training. Her instinct was to prod, learn the bent of his mind, yet cold dread filled her soul to where she was unable to think. She needs must gather her thoughts. Playing the witless fool could cost them all their lives. When she said naught, he turned away, and set about to poke the fire to give more heat.

  He had done nothing to restrain her, judging she would never leave Muriel or the children behind. The defensive design of the broch protected the round fortress from sudden entry. He also saw it would be nearly impossible for them to escape. Plus, how far could she get with two children and an aging woman in a snowstorm?

  Skena ran choices through her mind. Noel would follow their tracks to the broch. If he foolishly entered he would be exposed to attack without a chance of defense. Noel might not know how a Pictish broch was constructed and would be unprepared to face the narrow defensive entry, likely why Daragh chose to use the old tower as a trap with the children and her as his bait. The only weapon she carried was the sgian dubh, tucked in at her waist. Fearful he might discover it, she carefully shifted the small knife under the cover of the mantle until it was snug against her back.

  Her injury fleeting, Ella moved off to the shadowy far corner of the chamber as large as a Great Hall. She grumbled to Dorcas, their words too low for Skena to hear. Clearly, Ella was upset over Daragh’s shift in attitude toward them, yet both were smart enough to keep their distance and not bother him again. He glanced up from where he was sharpening his knife on a whetstone. His dark brow furrowed, but then he shrugged off their furtive murmurings; it was plain to Skena he was going to carry out his plans, and they would have little bearing on his decisions.

  “May as well settle down and stay warm, Skena MacIain,” he suggested. “We might have a wait because of the snowstorm.”

  “Skena de Servian,” she corrected.

  He looked up at her with cold, assessing eyes. “You took his name. That surprised me. You never took the Fadden name. What does that say about you?”

  She cuddled the children, seeking to reassure herself they were unharmed. “What does it say about me? Clan law stated I must bear the MacIain name to own Craigendan. We now have an English king as a ruler. He says the charter now belongs to de Servian. Clan law no longer applies to me.”

  “But that is not the whole reason, eh?” He gave her a lazy half smile. “You are taken with your new lord husband. I watched you. Not that I fling blame, what with Angus flaunting that one,” he inclined his head toward Dorcas, “before your very face. A burr under your saddle, you being a proud woman, eh? Goes without saying, Angus was not a smart man. Any man who had a lady wife such as you would treat her with the respect she deserves, count themselves blessed indeed.”

  A shiver crawled up her spine, and it had naught to do with the draft whistling through the broch. Daragh almost sounded like a swain attempting to win her favor. The prospect caused bile to roil through her.

  Figuring it best to let him think she was too scared to force any sort of confrontation, she quietly moved to cuddle against Muriel. Shifting the children between them, she whispered murmurs of assurance and told them to rest and be quiet. She kissed their foreheads, then a faint smile crossed her lips. They were not asleep, but scared and smart enough to keep still until they knew what to do. By pulling her mantle across them, she and Muriel could share their body heat and keep the little ones warm. She kissed Muriel’s cheek. While she did not wish her friend to be involved in this ugliness, she was glad Muriel had been here for the children. Annis waited until they were settled, and then she rolled and put her arms around Skena, her thin body trembling. At the soothing stroke of Skena’s hand over her hair the shaking slowly lessened.

  Skena watched Daragh as he prepared for the battle to come, for she had no doubt that was what he was doing—readying himself to kill Noel. First, he sharpened two knives, tucked one in at the belt about his waist; the other he hid in the edge of the right boot; then he pulled out a dirk and set to work on it.

  She felt the pull of the kenning ripple through her, as he held the long knife up to study its edge. In a merging of the images, she saw from when she walked in Noel’s mind, how close he came to dying because of Angus. Within her mind’s eye that scene wavered, shimmering in her vision, so it was now Daragh’s hand stabbing Noel in the back. She blinked several times, hoping to banish the horrible sensation that burned at the pit of her stomach.

  “Lady Skena, you watch me,” Daragh said, then offered her a soft smile. “Mayhap you see the difference between my brother and me now? Naturally, I am younger by nearly ten summers. Taller as well and not as thickly formed. Angus was the image of our father, where some of that was blunted within me because I took after my beautiful mother as well. Dorcas thinks I am prettier. What say you?”

  Skena could see there was a softer beauty to his eyes. So unlike Angus’s they must come from the mother. Oh aye, on the surface he would draw women, a handsome man, indeed. Yet, the surface was where the two men’s likeness ended. Angus did wrong in attacking Noel; it was a cowardly act, but one of a man driven to the end of his rope in battle. In most everything else Angus never intentionally meant ill toward anyone. He was careless of Skena’s feelings, and oft hurt Annis by his indifference, but he had never been malicious in his deeds. He would never scare or threaten an old lady or child. Unlike the brother there was a ravenous hunger coiled within this man, pushing him to acts that branded him a coward, evil.

  He reached up with the razor-sharp blade and began to dry shave the whiskers from his face. Pausing with one side done, he wiped the blade on his pants’ leg. “You seem to prefer Lord de Servian’s clean face.” He continued scraping away the dark hair of his beard.

  Skena almost recoiled. He was trying to win her approval! The only reason he would bother to do that was if he planned to keep her after killing Noel. She had not realized she was clenching and unclenching her fists under the mantle until Muriel gripped her arm and squeezed, silently counseling to rein in her reactions. Batting her lashes to give herself space to reform her expres
sion, she met his intense stare with blankness. She was not a good enough mummer to feign interest in this man who had terrorized her, and yet now assumed she would be willing to accept him in Noel’s place.

  “What are your plans, Sir Daragh?” she asked casually, as if it were naught weightier than how was the weather. She had to tamp down on the other words rising in her throat for they would only serve to worsen her position.

  He offered her a wolfish grin. “I told you my plans, Lady Skena.”

  Glowering, Ella prodded Dorcas with her elbow. “I warned you…and did you hear me? Nay. She uses them witch ways on him.”

  Dorcas glanced from Daragh to Skena, mistrust and resentment marring her face. “Why must you drag all this out? You play games that waste time. Be done with this,” she harangued Daragh with the sharp edge of her tongue. Even so, Skena saw worry in her sister’s brown eyes, fear that Daragh’s shifting plans were not going to include her. She wanted him to act before he changed his mind.

  “You sicken me, Dorcas. I have no idea how I could give birth to a malignant creature such as you. I curse the day I pushed you from my body and you drew breath. You are naught but a changeling,” Muriel said, revulsion and scorn clear in her soft eyes.

  Skena slowly reached out and took her friend’s lower arm, hoping to restrain her temper. Time was passing. Noel would be coming. Little would be served if Muriel provoked Dorcas.

  Ella laughed, the harsh barking sound echoing against the stone walls. “Changeling, you say? You little ken how right you are.” Her dull gray eyes held a gleam of triumph. Something else was there as well—madness. “You thought yourself so beautiful, with your long red hair, better than the rest of us because the Auld Ones blessed you with a comeliness that could turn a man’s eye. But you were common, not good enough to take to wife, no matter how pretty you were. So The MacIain made you his whore. Why should you look down on Dorcas for doing the same thing her mama did? Except, you ain’t her mama. Never were.”