One Snowy Knight (2 page)

She closed her eyelids, then pulled her mind to that dark spot in her heart and listened, hoping her witch’s sense could guide the path. Women of Ogilvie blood were oft touched with degrees of the kenning, a fey gift, the ability for the mind to reach beyond normal perceptions. Her mother’s mother was an Ogilvie of the old line, thus she had inherited this power from their blood. The trait had never been strong in her, not like it was in her cousins Tamlyn or Aithinne, though she hoped this time it would serve her true.

Off to her right, far up ahead, she thought she perceived a voice. Opening her eyes she searched, but discerned naught in the blinding snow. Had her mind been playing tricks? Just as hope turned to disappointment, she heard it again.

“Mama!” So faint, she still did not trust the call to be real. Then it came once more. Louder. “Mama!”

Her heart leapt for joy as she gathered up her mantle, hurrying her steps through the deep snow. Though the response was repeated, she still could not see Andrew. But then, two small ghostly figures formed up ahead. She hated that the snowdrifts made it hard to reach them, and that with each step she sank all the way to the tops of her boots. The heavy wool of her kirtle saw the hem sodden and weighted. The chill was reaching her body, sapping its heat.

Then she noticed a pale form behind the children. A horse?

Her relief shifted back to apprehension. No steed would be out wandering in this. The animal could only mean a rider was near, yet none was on his back. As she drew close she saw it was a monstrous destrier, nearly as white as the snow, a beautiful stallion of power, an instrument of war, yet it followed behind her children with the mien of a puppy.

“Mama!” Annis cried and hurried toward her.

Skena leaned down to hug her darling daughter, though after that first rush of blessed relief that they were safe, she itched to take a hand to their backsides to ensure they would never do this again. “You two are in trouble, you ken?”

“Och, Mama, do not fash!” Andrew grinned, while petting the mighty steed on its neck. “Is he not wonderful? The most valiant destrier in all of Scotland? He’s a Kelpie, Mama.”

“Nay, Kelpies are water horses, Andrew.” She hugged him, and then ran her hands over his body to make sure he was unharmed.

“Is snow not frozen water? It tastes like water when I catch it on my tongue,” he argued, crinkling his forehead. “I made a wish, Mama—my Yuletide wish—to the Cailleach, lady of winter. I asked her to send us a warrior, a knight to protect us.”

“A knight to care for us…to love us,” Annis added in her soft voice, lowering her lashes to hide the pain that her father had never loved her.

Skena’s heart broke yet another time. Annis was such a pretty little girl. She had the same dark auburn hair and big brown eyes as Skena bore. People spoke of how her daughter was the spitting image of Skena when she was a child. How any man could not adore the bairn, she had never understood. Angus had doted on Andrew, his son and heir, but with ‘the girl’ he nearly denied her existence. Tossing her mind back over the past seven years, she could not recall Angus’s ever calling their daughter by her given name. It was always ‘the girl.’

Skena’s trembling hand reached out and brushed the snow from Andrew’s shoulders and hair. “Oh aye, a grand steed is he, too grand to be out in this winter storm. But he is no Kelpie.”

“He
is,
Mama. He brought our knight, just as I asked,” Andrew insisted, getting that stubborn look upon his countenance.

Skena sighed in exasperation, seeing Angus’s face stamped upon their son’s features. The lad was hard to deal with when he fixed on something. Oft losing the patience to deal with the willful child, Angus had wanted to foster him with his younger brother in the south on the Marches. Skena refused to allow it, begging to keep her son one more year before he was sent away for training. She did not want some man she had never met caring for her son. Though she little regretted she had bent her husband’s resolve in this matter, she was apprehensive about Andrew’s willful streak now there was no man to show him the way of the world.

Annis took her hand. “Come see, Mama. He is beautiful, a knight true, like some great warrior king of old that the
Seanchaidh
tells about around fireside.”

“We need to get back to the
dun
—now. Dark surrounds us. You are aware night falls early now that the Solstice draws near. You are soaked. I am soaked. We’ll catch our death if we do not get back and dry ourselves—”

“Mama!” Annis sobbed, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “We leave him out in the stour…. The wolves will come…and get him.”

Andrew took her other hand and tugged. “Come, we must fetch him back with us. He is ours now. I asked the Kelpie if he was, and he shook his head aye. Watch.” He stroked the horse’s velvety nose. “The warrior belongs to us now. You brought him for us, eh?”

The beast shook his head up and down, and then looked at Skena with soulful eyes. She blinked in shock. Was this warrior steed indeed one of the Fae?

“See, Mama?” Annis hopped back and forth on her feet. “Come, we must save the man.
Please…”

Heaving a sigh, she saw the twins were in their obstinate mood and would refuse to listen to her. If she pushed them to obey, they might run off in different directions—a ploy they had used more than once when defiant. With the snow worsening, it was vital they get back to Craigendan quickly. “Very well, one should not doubt a Kelpie, I suppose.”

Taking the reins of the beautiful steed, she turned him in the direction the children had come. Picking up Annis, she set the little girl in the saddle and then watched to make sure the horse would accept the small rider. Some destriers were trained never to permit anyone upon their backs but their masters, yet this animal turned his neck and merely observed as Skena settled Annis’s hands on the high pommel. The horse’s huge eyes seemed so gentle it was hard to believe this beast was trained to kill in war, was as valued a weapon as a lance or broadsword.

“Hold tight and grip with your knees as I taught you.” Skena pulled the hood on the child’s mantle about her small face.

“Aye, Mama.” Annis’s head bobbed in a nod.

Taking the reins, Skena allowed her son to tug her in the direction he wanted. Just as she feared this was a fool’s errand, her eyes spotted an odd shape on the earth up ahead. As they neared, she grew alarmed some poor soul was on the ground covered by snow. Passing off the reins to Andrew, she rushed forward. By the length of the body she judged it to be a man.

“We tried to clean him off, Mama,” Andrew said, “but the snow only covered him again.”

“By the blessed lady, he must be the rider of the horse.” Was he even alive? Skena knelt beside the still body, and with her freezing hands swept the snow from his face.

As she brushed off the slope of the second cheek, a small gasp came from her lips; she stared, transfixed by his beautiful countenance. Never had she seen a more perfect man. The wavy brown hair was not a dark shade, not light, though made a measure deeper from the wet snow. He had a beautiful chin, strong, yet not too square. Angus’s face had been pleasant, but his jaw had looked as if it had been carved from a block of wood. This man’s showed strength, character, yet there was a sensual curve that caused her to run her thumb over his nearly clean-shaven cheek. No face hair. Norman? Her hand stilled as a shiver crawled up her spine, one that had naught to do with the cold. Dismissing that concern, she swept the snow from his neck and shoulders. She rather liked that she could see his features; it allowed his perfection to show clearly. Nice strong brows, not bushy like Angus’s. And lips…so carnal, a woman would wonder what it would feel like to taste them, crave to discover such mysteries for herself. Surely, this man was touched by the blood of the
Sidhe;
only one blessed by magic could be so lovely formed, a man possessed of the power to lure a woman into darkest sin, with nary a thought of the risk to her soul.

She jerked back slightly at the odd notions filling her mind, a yearning that had never come before. Still, there was no time to fritter away on such nonsense. Trembling in alarm, she feared he might be dead. Great anguish arose within her that one so beautiful would have his life cut short. As she touched his neck, she felt the throb of his blood. Faint. So very faint. Relief filled her heart at that small flicker of life. She had to get him to Craigendan and warm his blood or he might not survive. Even then, it would be a fight to save him. How long had he been lying in the snow? In the fading light it was clear his skin was grey, his lips tingeing blue.

Fretting at the urgency of the situation, Skena glanced up at her daughter. There was no way the children and she could get this man onto the horse’s back. As well, waiting until they were missed and her people came searching for them was not a choice. Aid had to be summoned from the fortress. The warrior’s life and theirs hung in the balance.

“If wishes were wings we could fly back to the
dun,
” she muttered under her breath.

Rising to her feet, she tried to decide what the best course of action was. She could not abandon the man here alone, defenseless, while she went to fetch help, not with dark closing in. Nor could she leave the children with him. Grabbing Andrew by the waist, she swung him up behind his sister in the saddle.

“Andrew, you must ride for help. Do not run the horse. I know you love to do that. You must be careful he does not slip in the snow. Hie you to Craigendan and tell them to fetch a cart…and furs…any warming stones if they are ready. Tell Cook to heat water for baths and prepare hot broth for us all.” She handed him the reins.

“Aye, Mama. I will be careful,” he promised solemnly, assuming the responsibilities of a man upon his small shoulders.

“Our lives depend upon you, Andrew, my brave lad.” She moved to the horse’s head and rubbed his forelock. “My noble steed, carry my children safely to Craigendan…. Save us all and I shall see you get apples through the winter.”

Closing her eyes tightly against the tears, she hugged the horse, and then said a silent prayer to the Auld Ones to keep her bairns safe. Hoping she was doing the right thing, she gave the horse a light slap on his haunch and set him in motion. With her heart pounding, she watched until the pale stallion disappeared in the blinding blizzard.

Turning back to the man on the ground, she once again had to wipe the gathering flakes from his face. She attempted to tug him to a sitting position, thinking she could wrap her mantle around them both and lend him what little body heat she still had. When she went to lift him, she realized he still had his broadsword lashed crosswise over his back. Finding the strap’s buckle on the center of his chest, she released it.

Then froze as the howl came.

It was close by. The man groaned as she urgently rolled his dead weight, enough to drag the sword out from under him, and then dropped the leather sheath as she freed the blade. Holding the sword in her right hand, she used her left to release the clasp of her mantle. She would need her arms free to swing the sword. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the trees, she dragged her woolen cape over the man’s unmoving body.

The deep growl sent a chill to her marrow as the threat of the snowstorm had failed to do. Low tree limbs rustled and then parted as the set of glowing yellow eyes peeked through the wintry foliage.

Swallowing hard, Skena brought the sword up, preparing to swing, and praying she had strength enough to wield the mighty sword true.

Skena stood trembling, from the cold, aye, but more so from dread. With the specter of famine looming across the land, she feared wolves would soon be a threat they’d face. Foolishly, she had hoped the menace would not come this early in the season. Swallowing to moisten the dryness in her mouth, she watched the feral eyes narrow on her, judging how much a threat she presented holding the sword. Plainly, she posed nary a concern to the creature. Shoulders lowered, teeth bared, he edged forward, a low growl of intent rising deep in his throat. The animal scented her fear. Her weakness only emboldened him.

Keeping her attention on the black wolf, Skena quickly scanned to see if there were others coming up behind him or circling around. Where you found one, usually there lurked a pack. Her luck holding, thus far no other pairs of bright eyes appeared; no dark forms skulked through the unmoving undergrowth around the dense pine trees.

“Oh, please let him be a lone wolf,” she offered her wish to the Auld Ones, before whispering dark words to weave the charm of protection, drawing upon what little powers she possessed to sustain her through this ordeal.

Skena was not a small woman. Her Ogilvie blood showed in her tall body and strong bones. Even so, to hold the heavy broadsword, which took years for a man to master, was wearing. Her arms vibrated; tremors racked her muscles. A mix of terror and cold. The winter storm slowly leached all the strength from her body. She fought against the quaking, still the sword wobbled in her grip.

Baring his fangs, the wolf crept slowly forward, more daring with each step. Skena had trouble keeping her vision clear. Falling flakes and those kicked up by the spindrift continued to stick to her long lashes, adding moisture to the tears she valiantly labored to hold at bay. It was vital to see the wolf when he leapt in order to time her swing.

“Off with you, evil
foal-chû.
You will not be making a meal of this warrior or me.” She spoke her false courage, hoping the sound of her voice might frighten him into backing off. Instead, his body coiled, preparing to spring.

So intent was she upon the wolf, she hopped slightly when long arms enclosed about her. Startled and yet unwilling to take her eyes off the black creature. It was several heartbeats before she comprehended the stranger had awakened and was on his feet. Suddenly, in his strong embrace she was not so scared.

“Be still, my lady. I lend my strength to your swing.” The warrior’s cold hands closed over hers. He leaned heavily against her back; his powerful muscles caused her shaking to lessen.

Skena had little chance for the details of his nearness to filter through her thoughts, for with a feral snarl the wolf leapt for them. Frozen in terror she was unable to move, yet she felt the warrior wielding the sword. Bared teeth snapped close to her throat. She cried out and then flinched when the great blade caught the beast in the neck. Blood splattered across her clothing and face. Its heat shocked her. Numb with the horror, she stared at the animal writhing on the ground. In the gathering darkness, the pooling blood oddly appeared black upon the pristine snow. The coppery smell set her stomach to rolling; revolted, she choked back rising nausea. Her grip slackened about the hilt. The knight’s fingers closed tighter about hers. “Nay, my lady, never leave a wounded animal alive…sometimes, not even a man. ’Tis when they are most dangerous. They risk all for they have naught to lose.”

Standing before the wolf, he helped her raise the sword at an angle and plunge it into the animal’s chest. The beast jerked thrice. Then no more. With a low, uttered groan, the warrior dropped his hands from the sword.

Her arms burning from the strain, Skena was unable to hold the blade tip up. It thumped to the ground. Still, she kept her grip on it. There might yet be more wolves to come; the scent of blood on the wind would now lure them. Skena turned to see the stranger reel on unsteady legs and then go down on his knees.

Grasping the sword with her right hand, she caught his upper arm with her left to steady him. “Och, Sir Knight. Please, do not fall in the snow. It saps your body of vital heat. Help comes soon. We must remain vigilant. The blood scent on the wind summons others.”

He gave a faint nod of understanding, and then glanced up at her. Flakes hit his comely face, so pale from the cold. “Who…are you, demoiselle?” He reached up with a shaky hand and tenderly tried to swipe the splatters of blood from her cheek.

“I am Skena of Craigendan.” Despite the residual terror and the chill racking her body, a fleeting smile curved her lips as she stared into his silvery eyes. So rare, there was a streak, almost a ring around the inner eye, but in the fading light she could not tell what shade it was.

“Craigendan? I am…near the fortress then?” He clearly struggled to remain in his thoughts. “I am lost…only to be found.” He gave a faint laugh.

She was concerned. He was not shivering. People out in the cold shivered. Left in that condition too long they shuddered uncontrollably. If they stayed unwarmed beyond that, the quaking stopped as they pushed toward the threat of death. That he was confused, lacked good muscle control, and didn’t tremble scared her.

Still dazed by killing the wolf, she tried to sound calm. “Not far from
Dun
Craigendan.”

“Far for me, I fear. I sought the passes…. Glen Shane…” His words trailed off as his eyelids lowered.

Skena gave him a shake. “Stay awake. Fight it. Talk to me. You hunted for the passes of Glen Shane? Nary a stranger can find the passes. They are warded by an ancient spelling to keep outsiders away.”

“Challon…” The word was barely audible. Another jerk from her saw his head snap up.

“You ken the Lord Challon?” she asked, with a touch of fear.

“Lady Skena…You are beautiful…so…beau—” He gave her a faint smile, but then it fell from his lips as he stopped speaking. Limp, he just rolled to the side.

“Beautiful, indeed,” she scoffed. Struggling to pull him upright, she lost her grasp as he dropped back to his side. “Bloody man is daft. I am soaking, splashed with blood, and the
amadan
thinks me beautiful.”

The weight of his muscular body was too much for her to control. Frowning at how weak a woman was compared to a man, she leaned the sword’s hilt against his chest where she could snatch it up quickly if needed, and then set to straighten his poor legs. As she finished, she heard noises off in the distance in the direction of Craigendan. Soon, she spotted flickers of torches through the trees.

Upon his brown jennet, Andrew came first, leading the way for the others. “See, Mama, I fetched them.”

She wanted to give her son a hug for his bravery, yet did not want to get blood on him. “You did well, Andrew. I am proud of you.” Her teeth chattered so; it was hard to speak the words.

“My lady!” Galen called in concern as he halted the cart and climbed down. His ancient eyes took in her blood-splattered condition, the wolf, and the prostrate warrior. “You all right?”

“Aye.” Skena nodded, but was too drained to say more.

“Here, wrap this around you,” he said, flinging another mantle about her shoulders. “Jenna sent you another, fearing you would be soaked. You scatty female, you risk your death. You should not be so foolish. You ken all of Craigendan depends upon you.”

“Galen, cease fashing. We need to be away from this place.” Skena shivered, her eyes glancing about to make certain no wolves lurked in the low-hanging tree limbs.

“Oh, aye. And so we shall, afore the blood scent from that one lures his brethren. Warming stones and furs are in the cart. Snap to, lads,” he spoke to Kenneth and Owen—boys barely four summers older than Andrew.

They hopped from the back of the cart and went to the fallen warrior. They were the nearest thing to ‘men’ at Craigendan, aside from Galen, who was four score if he was a day. Between the four of them they managed to lift the knight off the ground and into the straw-filled cart. The man screamed out as they placed him on his back, which set him to cursing in a tongue seldom heard by her.

“Norman.” Galen’s brow crinkled, as he looked to her. His face was etched with foreboding. “Lass, what sends one of the mighty leopard’s knights all the way out here in this snowstorm? Bodes ill. Aught connected to Edward Longshanks only brings ravens and sorrow.”

Skena saw fear reflected in the man’s dark eyes. “No time to fret, old friend. Let us fetch him back to Craigendan. He has stopped shivering. That alarms me.”

“Mayhap he will not live,” the old man spoke, hope lacing his words.

“He
will
live,” she countered, with determination she failed to fathom. She asked, “Is there a chance to send to Glen Shane to bid Auld Bessa, Evelynour or Oonanne to Craigendan?”

His head gave a faint shake. “Not in this, lass. You ken the Three Wise Ones of the Woods come when they are needed. But they grow old, their days short on this earth. To travel that distance in this storm would be too much to ask.”

Skena grimaced, knowing her curing skills were not as strong as those of the three healers who cared for all in Glen Shane and beyond. Ignoring that apprehension, she placed the long sword by the warrior’s side, noticing he had lapsed into a dark state of mind. Accepting Galen’s hand, she hefted herself into the back of the wagon. Taking the heated stones from the sack, she placed them alongside the still man and then covered him with three bearskins.

“Take that sack and collect the wolf,” Skena ordered, tossing the burlap to Galen. When everyone simply stared at her, she snapped, “Do it! ’Tis meat.”

Andrew wrinkled up his nose. “I do not want to eat wolf meat, Mama.”

Ignoring her son’s sour face, she tucked a bearskin around the man’s large body. “Meat is meat. In a stew you will not ken the difference.”

As the cart pulled into the bailey, Skena hopped down from the bed of straw. They gently rolled the tall warrior onto a blanket to keep from jolting him about. Auld Bessa had warned her that a person left out in the cold too long might suffer heart seizures if they were bumped or handled too roughly.

“Each of you, take a firm grip on a corner of the
plaide.
We lift him at the same time. Slowly. No sudden jerks,” she instructed.

Everyone in the fortress was in a pother, running up and asking questions. They wanted to ken who the stranger was and what was he doing on the road to Craigendan. A Norman knight on their lands raised dire concerns in all minds. Still, Skena spared no time to fash over possible answers and what import they might hold for the future. Too worn down by the ordeal of looking for the children and then fighting the wolf, those disquiets would have to wait until the morrow. For the nonce, there were score of things to be done if they were to save this man’s life.

“Where do we put him, Skena?” Galen asked.

She knew there was only one place. “Take him to the lord’s chamber.”

“But, my lady—” Galen began.

Skena cut him off, letting the elderly servant know she would brook no opposition. “’Tis hardly the time to fret over such trifles. He is a big man and should have room. With no healer, his care falls to me. I need him where I can tend to him and require a fireplace nearby. It will be a long night of the soul, mayhap several, until he rests safely out of harm’s embrace.”

Galen eyed her with misgiving, but held his tongue as they started up the winding stairs. Andrew ran ahead, opening the door to the large chamber, and then hurriedly pulled the covers back on the feather mattress.

“Place him down carefully. Do not jar him,” she said, anxious. Once that was done she hugged Andrew and kissed his forehead. “Run along to Nessa. I want you and your sister to have a warm bath and be full of hot broth. Then to bed. I will come kiss you day’s end when I am free.”

Nessa came in to poke the fire, adding more peat bricks to raise the heat in the large chamber. “Who is he, my lady?”

“That remains a question unanswered at this point. Nessa, take Andrew and Annis. Bathe them in warm water. Keep adding hot water as it cools to make sure they are unburned by the cold. Fill them with hot broth and then tuck them up together with warming stones. Stay with them this night, please,” Skena asked.

“Aye, my lady. See to the man. I will keep watch over your lambs.” The nursemaid took Andrew by the shoulder and turned him toward the door. “My nosy lad, you want to see if the warrior is all right. Never fear, young lordling, your mama will fetch him around. Come, you must do as your
màthair
bade.”

“He is
my
warrior. I wished for him, and he came.” Andrew dragged his feet, plainly wanting to stay. “The Kelpie fetched him for me.”

“Oh aye, and you can tell him all about how he belongs to you—on the morrow.” Nessa grabbed him by the sleeve of his sark and pulled him from the room.

Skena sat on the edge of the huge bed and then unbuckled the warrior’s belt. Fortunately, he wore soft leathern hose, well treated with oil, so they were supple. That was a blessing. The oiled leather had turned away the snow, preventing the wetness from reaching the flesh of his legs. Galen could not work the frozen knots on the cross-laced boots; taking out his knife, he cut the lacings.

“Gently, Galen. Do not jostle him,” she cautioned again.

The old man glared at her. “Lass, I have been caring for those who were exposed to bad weather long before your
màthair
was born. I ken we must keep him peaceful.”

Jenna, her maidservant, came in carrying a stack of linens. “I ordered the big tub fetched. Cook has plenty of water on the fire. Is there aught else I should do, my lady?”

Skena nodded. “Aye, go to the stillroom and get my herb box. I need to make a tansy to ease his pains that will come with warming. Also, bring the large pot of healing ointment that Auld Bessa prepared for us back in the summer.”

“Aye, my lady,” Jenna nodded before scurrying off.

Galen examined the man’s bare feet for cold burn. “Bluish, but not bad. He is cold inside more than out methinks. The flesh will be fine with care. His clothing served him well, protected him from the worst of the cold. His boots, like the hose, are well oiled, thus they turned away the wet. The children came upon him before he had been out there too long. Lucky for him.” He added under his breath, “Mayhap not so lucky for Craigendan, eh?”