One Snowy Knight (20 page)

As she reached the bend, she pulled up. The long corridor wound to another turn and ultimately reached a tunnel entrance, which opened upon the bailey behind the stables. Torches were not lit in the sconces, nor were there arrow loops to break the impenetrable darkness. She listened as the man’s footfalls carried him farther away. Skena knew every inch of Craigendan, could walk this twisting passage blindfolded, yet she wavered on following him.

At the second bend, he spun on his heel and looked back. “Skena…hurry…come.”

“Angus?” Skena’s voice echoed hollowly against the stone walls.

“Hurry…”

Putting her hand on the wall, she glanced to the torch behind her, wondering if she should go fetch it. Ahead, there were only the garderobe, a communal bathing area for the soldiery, a hidden outer door to the fortress, and another leading down into the bowels of Craigendan. Just as she decided to collect the torch, a faint light flared behind him as if a candle had been lit.

Keeping her hand on the stone wall, she cautiously made her way down the narrow corridor, the pale yellow glow behind her growing fainter as she turned the corner. Ahead, candlelight flickered from inside the cleansing room. Once more, she hesitated. The sense that something was off about this whole situation increased with each heartbeat.

“Hurry, Skena.” The ghostly call came from deep inside the large room.

Frowning, she crossed the threshold and looked about, but failed to spot anyone. The candle and wooden holder were sitting on a table against the far wall. Two large wooden tubs, empty, were before the cold hearth, a long bench on either side. A large wooden privacy screen sat across the corner. There was only one place he could be—behind the screen. Moving to the table, she picked up the feeble candle by the finger loop, lifting it high.

“Angus, are you here?” she called.

As she headed around the heavy paneled screen, something dropped over her head—burlap—the dust so heavy she choked, gasping for air. The candle dropped from her fingers, as she struggled to get free of the heavy sack. Only it was pulled down, covering her arms. She could not strike out. Suddenly, she was swung hard, sending her crashing against the far wall.

As blackness swirled through her mind, her last thought was that she should have heeded the kenning. “Too…late,” the words fell from her lips.

Noel loathed to admit it, but Skena had been right—he should have stayed at Craigendan and in bed. His back burned in red hot agony. He remained seated upon Brishen instead of dismounting to investigate the small clearing, fearful of having a rough time getting back in the saddle if he did. The wound throbbed painfully, yet with an ache that bespoke of healing rather than of flesh pushing to putrefaction, which he had suffered for so long.

Swinging his right leg over the pommel in front of him, Guillaume kicked out of his stirrup and then dropped to both feet from his charger. His steed and Brishen were brothers, nearly identical, pure white horses, presents from Julian five summers past. The lead rein in his hand, Guillaume carefully examined the small niche that nature had formed in the thick trees, looking for telltale signs of who had been living on Craigendan land. A crudely erected shelter, a lean-to made of evergreen limbs, had been nestled between the heavy boughs of two tall pine trees. Scratching through the deep snow, Noel’s friend exposed the remains of a fire that had been doused before it burned out.

Lifting a half charred branch, he held it up for Noel’s inspection, then flashed a look of mislike at the discovery. “Hard to say how long, due to the covering of snow, howbeit to hazard a guess—this site was abandoned, but not by more than mere days. Mayhap the snow drove him to seek shelter elsewhere?”

Noel gingerly turned in the saddle, searching for other signs that someone had used the tiny clearing for shelter, clues to why anyone would be out here in the dead of winter. Futile effort. The snow had thoroughly blanketed all but recent roe deer tracks. He grimaced from the pain and then asked, “If you were using this as a base, which path would you take from here?”

Guillaume shot him a veiled glance. “You would head out on the trail we came in on.” He shrugged. “From there it branches in one of four directions—Gailleann Castle, out on a small isle in Loch Shane Mohr, Comyn land to the north, Glen Shane, or back to Craigendan.”

“Who owns Gailleann Castle?” Noel inquired, as he watched Guillaume remount.

“Another Ogilvie heiress, though not by name. Caitrin Bannatyne, Baroness Gailleann. The lady is betrothed to Kerian Mackenzie, second son of a powerful Mackenzie chief near Inverness. Folks in Glen Shane speak ’tis a love match since childhood. He fostered at Gailleann. Child love is vastly different than the love twixt a man and woman. Methinks such familiarity often spoils the passion. And in Mackenzie’s case, he seems a bit”—Guillaume shrugged, reaching for the correct word and clearly failing to find it. “Pale? The pair came before me to give oath, since the isle is part of Lochshane’s
honours.
I find little comfort in the knowledge he shall be the future baron.”

“So he is your vassal?” Noel reined Brishen alongside so they could finish their discussion.

“In a manner of speaking. The isle belongs to the Lady Caitrin. These Ogilvie heiresses hold lands and titles in their own rights, through the distaff blood of their clan. Until Edward’s crushing of the Scottish army last spring, these females controlled their own fiefs because of some ancient ceremony they call
Rite of Line
. They speak such women are descended from witches of the old royal line of the Picts. A strange people, titles, rule, lands, all passed through the mother’s blood, not the father’s. Thus he shall be my vassal, but only as long as he remains betrothed to the baroness. If he cries off the wedding—no loss for her in my humble opinion—then the man she marries would become the new baron in his stead. The isle is vital, since it watches the comings and goings of both the Comyns and Campbells. I would prefer someone of a less ‘pretty’ mien guarding the passes at our backs. And speaking of pretty men, did you see Redam or Dare whilst you were in Berwick?”

Noel shrugged, thinking of this other Challon half brother. Darian Challon shared the same father as Julian, Simon, and Guillaume, but he had been born of a servant girl, instead of the high born lady who was Guillaume’s mother. “Darian was there, and what can one say, reckless as ever. He plays a dangerous game of tweaking Edward’s nose about sending Julian away. He might come to regret it if he missteps.”

“And Redam? I fret over him. Always have.” Guillaume’s face reflected that dark concern.

Redam Maignart, the seventh baron of Raoullin, was a soulless killer, a king’s assassin. “Aye, and well you should. He rides at Edward’s left hand,” Noel answered solemnly, not willing to say more.

Guillaume flashed a grin. “Mayhap we should kidnap our foster brother and hand him over to some Ogilvie female. Might be what his spirit needs.”

A horn sounded off in the distance, alerting them game was being herded, driven their way. They both drew their bows and notched arrows waiting as the crashing of a large animal sounded through the thick pines. Two large, red roe deer broke free of the trees, jumping high through the clearing. Arrows were loosed, hitting the animals in vital spots, but still they ran on. Spurring their steeds, they followed, keeping on the deer’s blood trail until the animals would finally drop.

Guillaume laughed and then called, “Ah, something besides wolf-meat stew for us this night, my Lord de Servian.”

The jarring chase only increased Noel’s pain, but they chased the deer until one fell, then finally the other. When his back slammed into the cantle, as Brishen jumped a fallen log, Noel said through gritted teeth, “I should have listened to Skena.”

Guillaume pulled alongside and grabbed Noel’s shoulder to steady him, as they reined the horses to halt. “Sorry for the manhandling, but Lady Skena would have my hide if you fall off your horse. We would never hear the end of it.”

Noel pulled in a ragged breath. “We needs must get these beasts dressed before the meat goes off.”

“My lord,” Emory called, cantering up from the opposite direction. “Riders come through the lower passes, heading toward Craigendan.”

Guillaume’s face darkened as he dismounted quickly. “If we take time to gut the animals they will reach there before we can. Help me tie the roes to the backs of the horses. We will have to dress them at the
dun.”

“Did you see the pennon they were flying?” Noel asked of the young man.

Emory shook his brown head. “Nay standard I could see. Safe wager would be Comyns. The Campbells do not venture from fireside when ’tis cold. Besides,” he looked from his liege and then back to Noel, “’Tis well known Duncan Comyn has fixed his eye on the Lady Skena.”

Forgetting the dead animals, Noel set spurs to Brishen’s side, racing back to Craigendan.

“Make way!” Guillaume called. The squires dropped the roe and jumped aside as Brishen leapt over the other fallen animal. “He is a man in love on a mission!”

Noel nearly vaulted from the saddle before Brishen stopped. The horse was angry for being run so hard, and nipped at his arm as he passed off the reins to the stable boy. He usually took care of Brishen himself, but he needed to find Skena. “Cool him down, curry him, and then an extra ration of oats. Do not look at me wide-eyed. Supplies will be coming in the next few days. Snap to.”

“Aye, my lord.” The lanky lad nearly hopped in alarm. Noel regretted barking at him, but failed to soften his words. With riders coming he wanted to greet them as the new lord, especially if it was Duncan Comyn, wanting to mark his possession of Craigendan and its lady from the first breath. Quite territorial of him, true, but this was his chance at happiness; he would allow no one to threaten to take it away.

“My bloody back suddenly does not pain me so much. Jealousy takes the edge off it.” He chuckled wryly to himself.

He fretted, resentment rising. What if Skena had feelings for this man? Mayhap she had thought to wed with him once she put mourning behind her. Sanity pushed back the savage, unreasoning male and reminded him how Skena looked at him, how she hungered to touch him. Well, he would soon let her caress him all she wanted, which might be half as much as he craved.

“Skena!” Barely into the Great Hall, he bellowed her name. The women were setting up the trestle tables and paused to stare at him. Mayhap their old lord did not run around yelling. Well, they best grow accustomed to his behavior; he had a feeling he would be calling for Skena—and often. “Where is your lady?”

A lovely young woman did a faint bob before him. “I am Elspeth, Lord de Servian. Skena went to the stillroom to fetch boughs of the juniper for a cleansing of the hall. Some time ago. She never returned.”

“Has anyone else seen her?” He looked around at the curious faces, realizing he was still new to them. While he had been here for days, this morning was the first time most of them had laid eyes upon his countenance.

The old lady who had helped treat him came slowly forward. “Skena went to the stillroom just after you left. Never came back. Come, I will show you the way.”

Noel was not without compassion for the woman’s afflictions of age, but the niggling of unease made him want to run instead of follow her slow steps. The disquiet clamored louder when they found the stillroom was locked. “Would she bolt it from inside?”

“Aye, on occasion she has been kenned to do so. Her bolt hole when troubles pressed in on her.” Muriel raised her hand to knock, but Noel saw her twisted fingers, and instead rapped on the wood before she could use her poor knuckles.

“Skena?” He waited to hear if there was a shuffling inside in response. Only silence. He rapped again, almost sensing Skena was not in there. “You did not see her return?”

“Nay. Spotted her go down the passageway. Then…” Her eyes grew wide in concern.

“What?”

“Mayhap naught. Ella came into the hall from this direction. Thought it passing odd she would be in this area of the
dun.”
Muriel’s grip on her cane tightened until the fingers, malformed by age, whitened.

“What is at the corridor’s end?” Noel asked, looking around. Reaching up he removed the torch from the sconce.

“Garderobe, bathing area for the soldiers after they work out on the lists, outer tunnel door for the fortress—to fetch in meat, goods, and supplies for the kitchen—and another leading down into the bowels of Craigendan where foodstuffs are stored,” she answered, trailing after him. “She would have no need to go this way.”

Noel paused to light a torch at the corner, and then again, one halfway down the narrowing passage. He entered the room set aside for the soldiers to wash down after training in the lists. Little was to be seen—two tubs, a wooden screen, and behind it a huge wood trough where they could urinate. The trough sent the liquid outside where it would be collected and used in the processing of dyes. Sighing, he backtracked, as there was nowhere else to go.

Appearing upset, Muriel came toward him. “She ain’t in the garderobe.”

“Would she have reason to go to the sublevel where the foods are stored?” Noel asked. Alarm setting hard in the pit of his stomach, he did not wait for a reply, but rushed to the door. The cavernous belly of the fortress hungrily swallowed the light to where it only cast the yellow glow halfway down the plank steps. A sense of something not right crawled up his spine, pushing him to descend the stairs. Halfway down, the flickering of the torchlight spilled to the bottom.

“Bloody Hell!” He passed the torch to Muriel, then rushed down on the remaining steps.

Skena lay at the bottom, pale and unmoving. He pulled her onto his lap, fighting back the howl of madness that threatened to erupt from his throat.

Noel was not sure he drew a breath until he put his hand to Skena’s neck and felt the beat. Faint, so faint he almost feared he imagined it. When he located the pulsing, slow though steady, he gasped in the air denied him. Curling her limp body to his chest, he rocked Skena, willing her to awaken. His heart felt as if a knife were lodged in it. Not since that fateful morning when the servants had carried in his mother’s lifeless body had he tasted such deep sorrow.

Muriel gasped, “Oh, by the Lady!” and then tried to come down the stairs.

“Nay! Stay,” Noel objected, fearing the frail woman would fall. “I shall carry her up. Hold the torch high so I may have as much light as possible.”

“Noel?” came the weak whisper against his chest.

He laughed, trying to shake the panic that had seized his soul. “Ah, so I am back to being Noel? Silly woman, once I can breathe again I might beat you for scaring me. I am not a young man, remember? Shocks to my heart are not a good turn.”

Skena reached up and cupped his chin. “You are young and beautiful…and methinks just a bit vain. You want me to tell you these things.”

“Oh aye, I am an overweening peacock, strutting my fancy plumage to catch your eye. I am still going to beat you.” Noel gave her the toothless threat, closing his eyes as he held her tightly to him. Fear of how close he came to losing her pulsed in his blood.

She managed a small laugh. “Very well, but first, will you kiss me?”

“Reward you for falling down the cellar stairs? Sorry, no kisses for scatty wenches who try to break their necks,” he grumbled, pushing the strand of hair away from her cheek.

“I did not fall.” Arms and legs akimbo, Skena tried to find purchase to stand.

Noel wanted to carry her up the stairs, but she seemed determined to get to her feet. He finally helped her. “Not fall? Pray tell how did you end up at the bottom of the steps? Fly?”

Skena finally looked around her and frowned. “How did I get down here?”

“Love, you had a fall—”

“I did
not
fall,” she stated with vehemence, then winced. She put her hand to the side of her head. “Och. What a goose egg.”

Noel nodded in sympathy. “’Tis what happens when you go clanging about and give yourself a knock.”

“I did not give myself a knock. Someone else did.” She glared, witnessing doubt upon his face.

“What mean you—that someone else did?” he asked, fearing her thoughts had been muddled by hitting her head.

Skena bared her teeth at him. “Someone—else—as in
not
me.”

Noel took her upper arm firmly. “A bump to the noggin oft scatters the mind. Let us get you abovestairs and ascertain if you are all right. Then you may tell me about your adventure.”

“I am not hurt, Noel, nor did I take a headfirst tumble down these bloody stairs. I went into the washing area, and someone dropped a burlap sack over my head. Then I think they flung me against the wall. How I got from there to the cellars I have no idea. I surrendered to the blackness.”

Noel’s brows lifted in skepticism, but Skena’s expression only grew more resolute. Beginning to believe her, he looked around for the sack. No empty ones were about, the light only touching the barrels and few sacks that were full, sitting atop them. “Where is the sack?”

“Fine. Do not have faith in my word. I ken what I ken, Noel de Servian.” She started to stomp up the steps, but he would not let go, forcing her to slow her pace to match his.

At the top of the stairs Muriel waited, concern clear in her lovely eyes. “Ah, lass, are you unharmed?”

Skena kissed the old woman’s cheek. “Aye. I sport a proper egg on my pate, and I will have an ache come morn. Other than that I feel well enough.”

“What happened?” Muriel pressed, as she closed the door to the root cellar behind them.

“I am unsure.” Skena glanced down the long hallway. “I was on the way to the stillroom to fetch juniper boughs for Elspeth, then I—” She stopped speaking and glanced up at Noel, her face confused.

“You did what, Skena?” he asked.

She swallowed hard, but went ahead despite clearly knowing what his reaction would be. “I thought I saw Angus and followed him.”

Noel straightened his spine, fearing she had injured herself more than she cared to admit. He reached out intending on taking her into his arms to carry her to the lord’s chamber, only she jerked away from him.

“Save that pitying expression, Lord de Servian,” she snapped.

He attempted to make light of the tense situation, concerned upsetting her would only aggravate her state. “Sigh, I am no longer Noel once again.”

“Do not play folly with my claim.” She stomped down the corridor toward the door of the cleansing room, leaving him standing there. “I was at the stillroom door and saw a man at the junction. He called my name. I followed. When I reached here he had vanished, so I entered.”

Noel went into the large chamber, followed by Muriel, both trailing after Skena. She strode to the table where a candle had melted onto the tabletop. The wax on the surface was hard.

“A lit candlestick was on the table, the only light when I entered.” Her steps carried her toward the screen in the far corner. “When I failed to espy anyone, I picked up the candle—thinking the only place someone could be in here and remain unseen was behind the screen. As I turned, a sack came down over my head.”

Noel carried the torch closer so they could inspect the floor. Skena knelt on one knee and picked up the small wooden holder, holding it up with a triumphant smile that said
told you.
Cold wax streaks were visible across the stone slabs, showing a candle had fallen there whilst still burning.

“The sack was dusty. I remember having trouble breathing. Methinks I sneezed, then it felt like someone hurled me against the wall. Hard.”

Noel found Skena’s injuries distressing enough. Only, to see evidence that she had not simply fallen down the steps sent his temper nearly out of control. Someone had deliberately stalked her, dropped a sack over her head, and then slammed her to the wall. One was an accident. The other was someone intent on malice. Then what?—they arranged her at the bottom of the staircase to appear she had tripped? Why? Such dark actions contained no rhyme or reason. Only pure evil.

“You say you followed a man here—” Noel began, only to be cut off.

“Not a man,” she corrected. “I followed…Well, I thought it was Angus.”

Noel exhaled in frustration. Angus again. “This is the second time you claim to have seen him.”

She nibbled on the corner of her lip, but finally admitted, “Nay, thrice now.”

“Thrice?” It came out in a roar, so he moderated the word into a soft question. “Thrice, Skena? When else?”

Skena glanced to Muriel to judge her reaction. “I saw him this morn…at least I thought it was him…when we were presenting you as the new lord. For an instant, he was standing in the far archway in the shadows. He spoke to Dorcas.”

“HA!” The snort of disgust popped out of Muriel. “Aught to do with that shameless strumpet who calls herself my daughter only bodes ill.”

Noel’s stomach twisted into knots. He could end Skena’s concerns that Angus was hiding in Craigendan by giving her the truth—that he killed Fadden at Dunbar, drove a sword through his body. There was no doubt of the man’s death. Only, if he told her how Fadden died, he might lose the first and last hope of love and happiness ever to come to him. There was no way he could risk saying those words. Someday, he would tell her, when he was assured she could bear his words without turning her heart against him.

“I saw Angus.” Skena waited for a response from Muriel. When the old woman looked sad, Skena turned back to him. “Dorcas said he was alive.”

“Lass,” Muriel shook her head sorrowfully. “Ne’er place faith in what comes out of that lying bitch’s mouth. ’Tis ashamed I am that I gave birth to the faithless creature. Better had I strangled her with her natal cord at birth, and saved us all a cartload of hurt and trouble. I watched what she did to you. She turned a deaf ear to me, laughed at the insult she paid you. If Dorcas said the moon just rose, I would expect to see the sun on the horizon. She spake evil words to spoil your new happiness, Skena. ’Tis killing her you might actually find love.”

“I ken that well, Muriel. Matters not. I did see him. First, on the stairs to the boulevard when I was going to fight the wolves, again this morn, and just a short time ago in the passageway. He called my name and kept telling me to come, hurry.”

Noel pursed his mouth, trying to decide if she held on to Angus’s memory, conjuring his shade, because of misguided devotion, or mayhap morsels of guilt at going on with her life. “Skena, Angus is dead. You must accept that—”

“Skena!” Galen called from the doorway. “Riders come. ’Tis Duncan Comyn.”

After finding Skena, Noel had forgotten about the riders coming to Craigendan. Now he wished them to Hades. He wanted to take Skena upstairs and cosset her until his fear of losing her finally quieted. Instead, he would be forced to play host to a man he little knew and trusted even less.

“Skena, we brought down two roes. Guillaume and his men will be bringing them shortly. Emory spotted the Comyn party coming through the draw, so I spurred Brishen back to reach Craigendan before they arrived. Come help me out of my mail and let us see ourselves presentable to welcome our guests.” Noel turned her toward the door.

Muriel clucked her tongue. “Guests? Ha! ’ Tis letting a red fox in with the geese.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Skena laughed, “to present Craigendan’s new lord to The Comyn.”

As the women started off down the hallway, Noel allowed his steps to slow. Lightly taking hold of Galen’s arm, he pulled the man to match his slower pace. “Show the Comyn chief into the Great Hall and have him made comfortable. Since they likely plan to stay the night, they may be escorted to their rooms if they wish. Tell him Skena and I shall be down presently to greet him. Set guards from Challon’s men at the doors so they do not leave the hall. Once Skena and I arrive, I want you to make a quiet search of every cranny and nook in the whole fortress. No corner spared light. We found evidence of someone living in the pines, about a league away from Craigendan. The site has not been used since the snow fell. I am of a mind he is sheltering within the
dun,
mayhap with Dorcas hiding him. If so, I want him found.”

“Aye, Lord de Servian. It shall be as you wish.” Galen gave him a solemn nod.

Scowling, Noel paused to look back to the cleansing room. He knew Skena had not seen Angus. That much was a certainty. He was coming to fear that the man who had been using the woods for shelter had come to Craigendan to hide after the snow started. But why? Who was he? What did he want? These questions seemed magnified in the light of someone’s having thrown a sack over Skena. He believed Skena after seeing the wax on the floor. Only why? Was someone attempting to harm her? His mind returned to the watcher in the woods. Surely, the unknown man was connected to Skena’s misadventure. Howbeit, had the knave been trying to scare her, or had the intent been more sinister and something had interrupted the scheme?

From now on, he would be sure Skena was never alone.

Fighting impatience, Noel stood still while Skena finished fussing with his appearance. Though it rankled a bit, he wore a sark of deep gray and a surcoat the color of the sky at midnight, items sewn by Skena, originally intended for Fadden’s Yuletide presents. Not entirely happy with wearing the articles intended for a man who tried to kill him, he had little choice until his own belongings arrived. Since he wanted to put on his best appearance as lord of Craigendan before this Comyn chief, he swallowed the objections when Skena had offered these raiments.

“Are you sure you are well enough, Skena? Mayhap you should be resting,” he fretted.

Skena chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver up his spine. “Those words oddly echo ones I spoke earlier to you.”

Putting his hands about her waist, he pulled her slowly closer. “And I should have listened. I admit you were right.”

Her smile spread as her brown eyes roved over his face. “I could love a man who is wise enough to admit he was in error.”

He felt the muscles of his face contort into seriousness. “Could you? Could you really come to love me, Skena?”

She reached up and gently traced the curve of his jaw, her smile fading. “Aye, I could…. I do. Had you not been so busy laughing with Lord Challon as you left, you would have heard me calling the words after you. As you said, we are little more than strangers, but there is a rightness when I am with you, Noel, something I have never felt before.”

Lowering his head, he brushed his lips to Skena’s, tasting her, gently savoring her rare sweetness. His blood surged, the primeval urge to mate roaring through him, overwhelming his thoughts. He wanted to shove her up against the wall and take her hard and fast, an echo of the dream where he had made love to her. Wanted to drag her to the bed and kiss every inch of her body until he was satisfied she was not harmed in the odd attack. Forcing those strong desires back, he tried to set her away from him.

Bold wench, she threw her arms about his neck and arched her body against his, deepening the kiss. He smiled against her mouth, knowing she wanted him as strongly as he craved her, only at this moment he had one poaching Scottish chief to deal with, waiting belowstairs for their appearance. Still, he was but a man, and Skena tempted him like none other; he gave in to her female demand and kissed her with the full passion boiling within him.

A knock at the door caused them to pull apart. Galen pushed his head inside and arched an eyebrow at them straightening their clothing. “Beg pardon, my lord, my lady, but the bloody Comyn demands his audience immediately, else he threatens to storm up here to assure himself Skena is not being held hostage and…hmm…tortured.”

Noel held out his arm to the blushing Skena. “My lady, shall we go show the Comyn knave the one being tortured in this fortress is me?”

She shyly placed her hand on his arm. “I beg to differ—you are not the only one tortured—but aye, let us deal with this aggravation so we can have done with him.”