One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Muriel looked to Skena, confusion in her eyes. She, too, saw Ella was not sane. Her hand closed over Skena’s, clutching her for assurance. “You have tides you wish to impart, old woman?”

  Dorcas seemed just as puzzled. Putting her hands on her hips, she came to stand near the fire seeking its warmth. “What mean you—she is not my mama? Are you daft? All ken I am The MacIain’s daughter.”

  Ella had all eyes on her, and seemed quite happy to be the center of attention. “Time you ken the truth. The lot of you. All these years I kept secrets to my chest. Now I have my say and have my laugh. Dorcas ain’t your spawn. She is flesh of my flesh.”

  Daragh jumped to his feet, coming between Dorcas and Ella, his knife still in his hand. “What are you blethering about, old woman?”

  “Truth. Plain and simple. Muriel never birthed Dorcas. I did.” She stuck her chin up defiantly and proudly thumped her fat bosom.

  Shaking her head, Dorcas recoiled from the words. “You lie! You are a crazy old woman. I should never have trusted you.”

  “Crazy am I? The night Muriel went into her birthing pains, old Jenny the midwife came to help her. ’Twas not her time, she said, still a moon and mayhap more before the babe were to come. Jenny was scared sumtin’ was wrong with the bairn. She wanted to send for one of the Three Wise Ones of the Woods, but there were a fierce gale and it was not safe to leave Craigendan. Well, turned out she were right. Muriel had a hard time pushing the child out, turned wrong it were. Nearly died in the effort. The poor thing lived, but not for long. During the night it drew its last breath. I told Jenny it was the Auld Ones’ will. I had given birth scant a sennight afore. My child would have a better life as the daughter of Muriel the whore than as the daughter of the swine girl. So I switched them. Killed Jenny to keep her mouth shut. The one I brought into this world had the thickest red hair, so no one ever suspected Dorcas was not Muriel’s.”

  “You lie!” Dorcas raged, and slapped out against Ella’s shoulder. “Say you lie!”

  Surprised, Ella fell back a step. “Truth be out, bald as it is.”

  “You knew this?” Daragh grabbed Dorcas by the arm and spun her to face him. “If anyone has heard lies, ’tis me. How you were the rightful daughter of The MacIain, that if Skena were gone you could claim Craigendan. The whole time, it was naught but a wagon load of shite you were shoveling.”

  “I never lied to you, Daragh. The old woman is crazy, I tell you. Turn a deaf ear to her madness,” Dorcas pleaded frantically.

  “’Tain’t madness, but truth, say I,” Ella insisted stubbornly.

  “Och, if this is not a turn of the screw! You knew!” Daragh accused Dorcas, pointing the knife in a playful manner, yet with veiled menace, toward the spot between her breasts. “Never trust a woman. Fool is he who trusts two!”

  Skena watched Dorcas knock the knife away, and then the three exploded into a roaring argument. Her fingers tightened on Muriel; she worried how this was affecting her friend. Age had taken its toll on the lovely woman. Muriel seemed stunned beyond reaction. Secretly, Skena wanted to laugh. This meant Dorcas was not her half sister. “Some good comes of even a foul situation,” she said under her breath.

  Dorcas rounded on Ella, furious. She had always relished being the daughter of the laird, imagining she was as good as Skena. Now Ella had told her she was the daughter of some low born serf and Ella. She had no claim on Craigendan, and it was not setting well with her. Her face was red, Dorcas was angrier than Skena had ever seen her.

  “She pukes lies, I tell you.” Dorcas’s voice grew higher, shrill.

  Daragh shot her a disgusted look. “Neither of you would ken the truth if it marched, pennons flying, down High Street and bit you in the fat arses!”

  “It little matters, Daragh. Think!” Dorcas was frantic and clutching at straws. “Whether the old woman tells the right of it or not, people ken me to be daughter of The MacIain. That is all they care about.”

  Skena spoke up, raising her voice to be heard over the din, “Dorcas could never stand giving oath in the ring of stones on Lochshane Tor. She would have to speak her line of ancestors before Evelynour of the Orchard and declare her right to rule this land was true. None can lie to Evelynour. She is gifted with second sight. She would ken the lies and dark deeds in your heart.”

  “Enough!” Daragh thundered. “You and that malevolent gnome of a woman get to the corner and keep there. Do not push me. Shut your lying mouths and speak not another word lest it go foul for you.”

  “Do not give me orders,” Ella barked, whipping out a small knife. “Everything still goes as planned—”

  Daragh smiled and nodded, then moved so fast, Ella did not have time to blink. He twisted her arm behind her, yanking it at an odd angle. Ella screamed out, flaying with her free hand, trying to get some hold on him. Daragh jerked the knife from her plump little hand, and then put his booted foot to her backside, sending her reeling across the stone floor to crash into the wall. She lay there in a twisted lump, unmoving.

  Annis pushed her body tighter against Skena’s and whispered in a taut voice, “Mama, I am scared.”

  Skena leaned forward and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “Do not fash. Noel will come soon.”

  Beware, Noel, beware, her mind whispered, hoping the kenning was strong enough to carry her warning.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  At Noel’s approach, Galen spun around, then offered a smile of well-come. “Lord de Servian, you have come.”

  “Aye, I have.” Noel almost chuckled at the man’s grin and his stating of the obvious. “Never thought you would be happy to see an Englishman, eh?”

  The Scotsman nodded, “’Tis true. But I am right pleased to see this one.”

  “Skena is up there? The children, too?” Noel tied Brishen out of sight by a stand of tall pines.

  “Aye, the footprints—hers, the children’s, and several others—lead straight to it.”

  Noel looked at the positioning of the strange, round tower, wondering what was going on inside the stone structure, trying to see it with warrior’s eyes and not with vision clouded by the emotions barely contained within him. It was situated well. Attackers would struggle to maintain their footing up the incline to reach the entrance. On the far side, the tor dropped off, leaving it invulnerable to attack from that angle. These ancient people, who had lived here, fought here, had chosen the perfect location to protect, giving all the advantages to the fortress.

  Guillaume rode up, dismounted, and tied his horse close to Brishen. “A wagon and men follow. Any more tracks, other than the ones we know about?” he asked.

  Galen shook his head. “Nay, only the man and several smaller sets—either women or young boys came this way. Kenneth has gone to the other side of the tor to check if men wait beyond, toward the Comyn boundary. We found this on the way here.” He held out a length of soggy cloth to Noel. “Comyn plaide.”

  Taking the tartan, Noel glared at it. “’Tis not Duncan Comyn up there. My guess this was left to confuse or misdirect.”

  “Then it must be your watcher in the woods, acting with Dorcas and Ella aiding him, I adjudge,” Guillaume said, walking a short distance up the hillside to study the tracks. “Unless Kenneth returns with tides of men on the other side, none cover his back to give us a problem. Nevertheless, we cannot just storm the tower, Noel. These Pict brochs are extraordinarily constructed, brilliantly engineered. Skena’s people were renowned for selecting some of the best defensive locations. Then they built to cause all manner of trouble for invaders. There is only one entrance—”

  “One?” Noel exclaimed, tossing down the swatch of wool.

  “Aye, and it gets worse. The opening forces a man to stoop to get inside. Then you pass under a platform where people can stand and jab spears down upon anyone stupid enough to force his way in. If you get by that, there is a double wall with the stairs winding inside. The passage is cramped. Your elbows will brush the stones on either side—no room t
o wield a shield or sword, and it turns you so the body is exposed. There simply is not space wide enough to pull up a shield before you. If you go in, ’tis the obstacles you face,” Guillaume pointed out the problems presented by the ancient structure. “And for my curiosity—just who is in there? You seem to ken. Duncan? I cannot believe he would be crack-brained enough to do something like this with no men covering his flanks. With backing, a Comyn is bold enough—foolish enough—to risk attacking Challon and Damian. Alone—they run scared.”

  “I know you want to tangle with Duncan because of what happened to Damian and Julian, but nay, Comyn is not behind this mess. ’Tis Fadden’s brother,” Noel stated flatly.

  Guillaume’s face showed surprise. “Brother? Bloody hell. That’s why you galloped off when we were speaking of brothers.”

  “When Edward gave me the charter to Craigendan, he mumbled something about a younger brother who had been wounded and made prisoner after Dunbar. I assume he escaped. De Moray did. And I hear Challon now has a father-in-law underfoot.” He lifted his brow to emphasize the point. “English jails do not seem able to hold these Scotsmen. Skena once mentioned the brother; said Daragh never came north when Angus wed her. He was much younger and was currying favor with their King Alexander at the time, with an eye to winning land of his own. I guess with ten years difference between the men they were never close.”

  “So why the elaborate mummery? He thinks to murder you to avenge his brother?” Guillaume turned at the sound of horses approaching. Riding by twos, men of Challon came bearing torches, reaching them at the same time young Kenneth trotted up from the opposite direction.

  “Nothing so honorable. I think he wanted Skena dead, likely me as well. Once we were out of the way he could claim his brother’s holding. Bootlick Edward and give a bent knee and the king forgives all. My guess Daragh promised Dorcas she would be the new lady of Craigendan to gain her succor. Stupid wench.” Turning to the young lad, Noel asked, “What say you, Kenneth? Any signs of men waiting behind the knoll?”

  The redheaded boy shook his head. “Nay, I went all the way to the bottom on the other side of the hillock. My tracks were the only ones in the snow.”

  “That is to the good then.” Noel pulled his sword from the sheath slung crosswise on his back. “Let us be done with this madness.”

  Guillaume reached out and grabbed his arm, staying him. “Wait, Noel. You cannot go rushing in. Did you not hear what I said you face by going in there?”

  “I heard.” Noel looked at him resolutely. “Skena is in there—with some Lowlander vermin that needs killing. Nothing else matters.”

  “And kill him you shall, but I shan’t see you trade your life for Skena’s.” When Noel yanked to break the hold, Guillaume tightened his grip, preventing him from pulling free. “Skena would not want that either. You rushed off from Craigendan with no mind to what comes next. Such foolishness gets a warrior killed. Your wife is depending upon you to have a knight’s head and come after her in a smart manner.”

  Noel closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, knowing Guillaume spoke true. He slowly nodded. “Thank you, my brother.”

  Guillaume smiled. “Now let us set about fetching your Skena.”

  Noel returned the sword to its scabbard. Looking to Galen, he asked, “What condition is the tower in?”

  “The broch goes to Elspeth upon her marriage. While the outer defensive wall has fallen into disrepair, the clan has kept the tower sound. Folk started to take stones from the top level ages ago, but a witch of the Ogilvies warned it was a mistake, a dishonor of the ones who came before us. She said if the broch fails, then the clan will fail, too. After that, the Earl of Kinmarch had it fitted with a new roof. Even so, it will take muckle work to set it right for our Elspeth. The joint timbers on the lower two levels are there, but no flooring. Planking is in place for the upper level, but I would show care. The thatch is refreshed every few years, but I am not sure how well it holds the weather out.”

  “Thatch? Then I should be able to cut my way through?” Noel considered.

  “How are you going to get all the way up there, my lord?” Kenneth asked with wide eyes.

  Galen shot the lad a sour look, silencing him. “Aye, you should be able to do that. I assume you will scale the left side. Once up there, cut a hole. Face the wall and drop down. Move to your left about a quarter turn of the tower, and you will find the doorway to the stairs that lead to the next level. From the second landing you can descend straight to the ground floor using the crossbeam.”

  “Such cannot be accomplished in complete silence. What say you? Make pretence of entering. Call him out and such. That will allow me time to make the climb, cut my way through the thatching, and get into position. A slow count to two score and I shall drop.”

  Guillaume frowned at him. “Nay, I do the climb. Your back is not healed yet, Noel.”

  “Right now I shan’t feel a thing. Until I hold Skena safely in my arms again I cannot breathe.” Noel stared Guillaume in the face, their warrior wills clashing. “If that were Rowanne in there, tell me you would stand back whilst I rescued her. Skena is my woman. I will fight for her. I will die for her if need.”

  Guillaume inclined his head, resigned. “Very well. Just see you do not die.”

  “Not to fash—as Skena would say. I have a lot to live for.” He patted Guillaume’s arm.

  Mallory came carrying a sack. “You will need this, Lord de Servian. The best rope, made in the rope-walk way. No splices. It shan’t fail you, my lord. A grapple hook is on the end.”

  “Thank you.” Noel gave Guillaume a grin as he removed his mantle and handed it to him. “Let me have your dirk.”

  Guillaume tugged it from his boot and passed it to him hilt first. “Be careful, Noel. I have a fondness for your pretty face. We have ridden too many leagues together to allow some mush-brained Lowlander to change that.”

  “Give me time to circle around and get in position. Then call to him, get his attention, anything to provoke him. He will not dare come out, but do what you can to give noise, a cover for my climb,” Noel instructed.

  Guillaume clutched Noel’s shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze, his eyes speaking his concern. Life had not seen fit to give Noel a brother, but he counted himself a lucky man to have a true brother of the heart in this man of Challon. With a faint nod, he turned and moved off into the shadows.

  Flanked by Mallory, Guillaume openly approached the front of the broch. Noel watched, waiting until they drew near the entrance. In the darkness, Guillaume’s build was similar enough that he could pass for Noel at a distance. It might be enough to confuse Daragh Fadden and allow Noel to get in position for the climb.

  Hunched down low, Noel sped through the shadows until he was out of sight of the broch’s front, then ran through the falling snow until he reached the far side. He opened the drawstring of the sack and dropped it like a snake sheds its skin, leaving him holding the heavy coil of rope with the climbing hook on one end, its length more than enough to reach the top. He heard Guillaume call out, demanding Daragh show himself instead of cowering behind the kirtles of women. He began swinging the three-pronged hook around and around in an ever-widening circle. Finally, he let loose, allowing the rope to play through his hands, sending the metal end flying skyward.

  Noel breathed a sigh of relief when the hook landed without noise, the combination of the snow and the thatch muffling the sound as it hit. Carefully easing back on the rope, he felt it finally snag; he gave a small, sharp tug to see if the hook caught. There was resistance. To set it, he yanked hard and found solid opposition. Feeling confident, he tested with his full weight, then smiled that it held firm.

  Hefting himself a short distance up the wall, he stood leaning out and waved to Guillaume to say he was ready. His friend withdrew his sword and boldly walked to the very opening. While the Pictish entrance disarmed those entering, those same defensive measures would also hamper anyone trying to come out. Fadden cou
ld not easily venture forth, thus Guillaume took his sword and tapped the flat side to the stone entry, tormenting. Inside, it would sound like thunder breaking. The perfect cover for Noel to climb.

  Despite his back still being sore he quickly ascended to the top. The thatch was densely packed, hard from several seasons, but he cut a man-size hole in it with little trouble. Sitting on the wall’s edge, he slid the dirk back into his boot, and then quickly coiled the rope around his lower arm, from hand to elbow and around again, preparing to use it to descend into the black bowels of the damnable tower.

  Below, he could hear voices—Ella and Dorcas, he thought—though not clearly enough to discern words. Still, it was obvious they were not happy about Guillaume’s banging on the side of the fortress. Their tone was strident, harsh, as they fussed about the racket, one voice in particular rising above the others.

  Noel smirked. “You think that is upsetting, wait until you catch sight of me falling from the roof.”

  Setting the hook again, he slowly lowered himself into the darkness. It was only a short distance until his feet clunked against wood. Keeping a hold of the rope in case the flooring proved rotten, he followed the inside of the wall around until his gloved hand found the doorway. Moving into the stairwell, he listened, seeing if his presence had been detected. Again, he heard voices raised in heated anger, but the way they bounced against the stone walls distorted the words. He waited, his eyes growing accustomed to the dimness; he began to make out the shape of the structure.

  Uncoiling the rope, he started down the stone stairs, moving in silent steps. As he reached the second level the voices became stronger, though their words were still too low for him to tell what was being said. Several were arguing, but over them he recognized Skena’s mocking laugh.

  “Fools—the lot of you. You kenned de Servian would come,” she taunted.

  Noel smiled at her spunk. He had told Guillaume he would feel nothing until he held her in his arms again. He lied. His heart jumped into an unsteady rhythm at just hearing her voice. God, he loved her! He meant it when he said he would die for Skena. He would rather live for her.