One Snowy Knight (7 page)

The cup empty, he stretched out his arm to hand it back to her. As she took it, he proved again just how fast he could move, grabbing her lower arm and pulling her across his lap. She opened her mouth to protest, but his closed upon hers, his lips quickly showing her how to follow his lead. She tasted the bitter worts from his mouth. Cared little. Slanting his head for a better angle, he let his mouth devour hers, deepening the contact as he issued the primitive male demand for her submission. And she would have given it, gladly, had another strong shiver not racked his body.

He slowly released her, his pale eyes roaming over her face with an expression of awe, similar to the emotions bubbling inside her. That look upon his countenance left Skena feeling as though someone had slammed a fist to her chest.

She slid off the bed, and with shaking hands, pulled the blankets up around him. “You should try to sleep.”

He weakly nodded.

Skena went to the large, square basket in the corner and removed the blankets and pallet she planned to use. Carrying them to the bench, she set them on it and then unrolled the pallet on the floor before the fireplace.

“What are you doing, Skena?” de Servian called from the shadows.

She rose from her stooped over position. “It occurs to me, my lord—”

“Noel,” he corrected.

“Methinks you are accustomed to giving orders and expect all souls to jump to your bidding. As to what I am doing…I am fixing my maid’s pallet before the fire. You are too quick to use that tone of command with me, my lord.” She picked up a blanket and spread it over the pallet.

“Aye, men are quick to follow my behest,” he agreed.

Taking another blanket, she carried it to the bed. “And women? They, too, fall all over their feet just to please the Lord de Servian?”

He smiled with complete arrogance. “You sound jealous, Skena?”

“Me? I have nary a jealous bone in my whole body.”

He laughed lowly. “And you are so honest as well.”

“I used to be,” Skena admitted in candor. “A lie never crossed my teeth.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “Now, hard times forced upon me by the ruthless, selfish, pigheaded ways of men see I do what I must to survive and protect my people.” Skena took the cover and spread it over him.

“So you are truthful about lying.”

“We take what we can get, my lord. May as well, because wishing gives us naught else.”

“If one does not believe in wishes, how will they ever come true? Mayhap the wishes go unfulfilled because you place no faith in them. Open your heart, Skena, and make a wish with the trust of a child,” he entreated.

“Lord de Servian, I am too tired to argue the point, or waste breath upon silly, useless wishes.” She flipped the end of the blanket back from his feet and then set to rapidly covering them front and back with the salve, but only up to the knee. When finished, she tucked the covers in around them, and turned to face him. There was no getting around the chore. She could not ignore the care he needed. “You look tired. Why do you not lie down as I continue dressing your skin?”

He nodded and scooted down under the covers. With curious eyes he watched her pick up his left hand and start to apply the ointment, then work her way up his arm. “This is soothing, Skena. I cannot recall anyone ever caring for me like this.”

His voice sounded wistful. Gone was the playful tone of flirtation. His words made her believe that no one had ever taken care of him before. She sat on the edge of the bed to reach his right arm.

“I am sure your lady mother did so on many occasions. We tend to forget those memories of when we were smaller,” she said, moving to cover the other arm.

Sadness flickered in his eyes as he gave a small shake of his head no. “I recall my mother very well. The few images I hold remain clear.”

Her quick movements slowed. She was sorry she had spoken without thinking. Pain squeezed her heart as she recalled he had been younger than Andrew or Annis when he lost his lady mother, seeing him alone in the world at that tender age.

His chest expanded as he drew in air to fight deep emotions. De Servian sucked in his lower lip, as if he were gnawing on it, considering if he should say the words that obviously still caused him pain. Some things did not go away, but lingered in the heart, unhealed, visibly the case for this man. “I recall her gentleness, the scent of verbane and lavender that seemed to cling to her skin when she hugged me at night. My father was competing in a tournament, hoping for the riches it would bring. Instead, it cost his life. My mother loved him very much, rare in the nobility, I suppose. A true love match. She found life unbearable without him, so one moonlit night she walked her grief into the lake.”

Skena’s hand stilled on de Servian’s neck as she ‘saw’ the images in his mind. Not just what his words provoked within her, but the kenning sang pure and true. With the force of a lightning strike, she actually saw his memories, ‘walked in his mind,’ as some spoke of the ability. Never had she experienced the gift with this clarity at any point in her life. Her cousin Aithinne always had. Her three brothers constantly complained that she could unfairly steal their thoughts. Skena had long ago accepted her Ogilvie blood was not strong enough. But now she saw everything. The small boy waking in the night, scared because his whole world had changed, seeking his mother’s reassurance. Skena witnessed everything through his child’s eyes as they carried his mother into the castle. Felt his loss, the desolation, the dread of being left alone.

“I understand her sorrow, but she should never have left you, Noel.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.

“You called me Noel.” He offered her a sad smile.

Skena swallowed the tears clogging her throat. “You scare me, Noel de Servian.” Backing off the bed, she wanted to run away and hide from him. How could this man so turn her life upside down in such a short time? “Get some rest.” Not waiting for his reply she rushed to the pallet.

Usually, she banked the fire before turning into bed. This night she wanted the room to stay as warm as possible; to see that it did, she added a couple more peats to the fire. Allowing her hair to fall over the side of her face, she swiped away a stray tear with the back of her hand. Sadness for the small child who had lost his parents and had been alone in the world, sadness that he felt no one had cared for him with tenderness since.

Sadness for herself because this man reached her in a way none ever had before.

“Skena!”

She stirred in her dark slumber, unsure who was calling her or why. It had been a struggle to find her rest. Images of Noel de Servian kissing her had taunted her into the wee hours of the night, left her foolishly wanting what she could never have. She finally drifted off with a passel of questions chewing at the pit of her belly.

“Skena!” The call came again. Harsh. Raspy.

A moan of protest rose in her throat as she tried to climb out of the blackness of her mind. Despite every muscle in her body complaining, she forced herself to awaken. Something about the cry caused alarm to speed her blood from its night thickness. Sitting up, she shivered. Her stiff back protested. A yawn came and finally went before she recalled she was on a sleeping pallet before the fireplace. A shudder racked her body, so she leaned over for a peat brick to place on the fire, making sure not to smother the low flames. Once it started to catch, she carefully added another.

“Skena…” This time the summons was weaker.

Pushing up, she realized her name had been called from the bed.
De Servian.
Her heart slammed up in her chest as she hurried to bedside. He had half-kicked the covers off, and even in the shadows she could see he was bathed with sweat. Clearly, he was not fully awake; his arms and legs thrashed against the covers.

“Skena…”

His calling her name when he was not in his awakening mind touched her in a way she could not unriddle. She reached out and placed the back of her hand to his forehead and nearly flinched at the heat off his flesh. Moving her hand down to his chest, she checked if the rest of him burned as strongly with fever. This level of heat was dangerous.

“Noel.” Skena leaned over him and shook his shoulder.

The silver eyes popped open, but they looked up at her blankly, not really seeing her. This state terrified her. She had feared the sickness would come upon him. Now the fight for his life would begin.

Skena started to pull her hand back, but his shot out and grabbed her lower arm in a grip that was near bruising. His stare finally seemed to focus upon her.

“Do not leave me,” came the harsh whisper.

With de Servian’s expression glazed, she wondered if he spoke to her, or in his feverish torment this was the child Noel, wanting his mother not to abandon him. Once again, she achieved that rare oneness with this man, taking his pain within her heart and making it her own.

“Skena…do not leave me. I do not want to die alone,” he gasped.

She placed her hand over his where he gripped her lower arm. “Noel, ’tis only the sickness. You are strong and not going to die. I will be here as long as you need. But I must get some help, call for things I can use to care for you. Do you understand?”

Noel did not respond for so long she feared the consuming heat possessed him too tightly in its grip. Auld Bessa spoke that if unchecked, the fever could burn out a man’s mind. Though she had assured him otherwise, the dark specter of losing de Servian gripped her soul. Finally, he gave a nod, and his hand released her.

Skena stroked his cheek. “Rest easy,
mo cridhe.”
As the endearment was out of her mouth, she flinched. She had called him
my heart.
Holding her breath, she waited for his reaction, but only another shudder racked his body. Most likely, he would not recognize the words. “Try to keep the covers over you. Your sweating turns cold if you kick them off.”

Rushing to the door, she jerked it open and nearly tripped over a body sleeping before the threshold. She righted herself by catching the doorframe before she fell. The large lump shifted as the covers rolled back.

“Galen?” she asked in surprise.

The old man tried to cough, nod, and yawn at the same time, while awkwardly reaching for the dirk in his boot. “What be the trouble, Skena?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why are you sleeping before the door? The floor is too cold for your aching bones.”

“Aye, ’tis truth. Only, I was not leaving you alone with that bloody
Sasunnach,”
he informed her. “He might split your gullet.” His eyes traveled over her in the thin night rail, then he added, “Or worse.”

“Thank you for your protectiveness, dear friend, but you spent half a night on the cold floor for naught. You will be sick as he is if you do not stop such nonsense. I need more bedding, drying sheets, hot water, honey, oilcloths, and send one of the lads out for a pail of snow and another to fetch up more peat bricks.”

“Snow?” He rubbed his face. “Wha…Ah, the fever came upon the warrior.”

Skena frowned. “Keep the faint tone of hopefulness out of your words, old man.”

“Why, Skena? Mayhap it would be fortune’s will.” He folded up his pallet, his eyes never leaving her.

Helpless to explain, she turned her hands palms up. “I lack the ability to tell you. De Servian is special in a way I cannot impart.” Hesitating, she questioned revealing all to him, but then decided mayhap it was best. “Aye, he is English, and I ken not why he is here…. Only…”

“Only?”

“The kenning in me is strong with him. I saw his mind, his remembrances of when he was but a child,” she confessed, confused by this vital connection between them.

Galen’s head snapped back. “The kenning is weak in you, Skena. You have never before been able to reach out with the gift in that way. Why him? A bloody Englishman? This bodes ill. Mark my words.”

“The future’s path I cannot foresee. Nevertheless, the fey bond is there.
Keen.
I can only accept it to mean that in some manner de Servian is different from other men. Important,” she defended.

Laying the rolled covers and pallet to the side of the wall, Galen gave a fatherly glower. “Are you sure you do not confuse the kenning with desire? Pretty men can turn a maid’s head; few are e’er worthy of trust. Everything in life comes too easily to them, Skena. Especially women. Best you ponder upon that before you go fixing in your mind that the Lord de Servian is somehow above all others, lass. You only set yourself up for heartache.”

Skena felt as if she had taken a hit to her heart when he brought up women coming to de Servian too easily. Had she not fashed over these very thoughts only a short time ago? Still, it wounded her to hear someone else speak the same qualms. Made her feel hopeless, a silly lass with dreams that refused to die.

“I fail to recall asking for your views on the English lord. I asked for several items and the peat, water, and snow to be fetched. Or shall I go do these things myself?”

Galen’s brows lowered at her scolding. “Go ahead, Skena, take the hide off my back with that sharp tongue of yours. You ken I am right. You also ken I will follow your orders. And I will be here with a shoulder for you to cry upon, lass, the day this pretty adder plays you false.” He shook his head at her as she opened her mouth to speak. “Hold the lady of the keep rebuke. ’Tis a waste of breath, and we both ken it. I am going. I am going.”

Skena spared but a glance at her elderly servant shuffling down the hallway. It brought sadness that he disapproved of her actions concerning de Servian. Galen had always been so supportive of her in everything, first serving her lady mother and then her with complete loyalty. Worse, she knew the old man was being truthful, merely echoing her own worries about this English warrior and his coming to Craigendan.

Despite that, it did little to deter her from the path before her. De Servian’s fate was now twined with hers in some strange manner; the kenning told her this to be a certainty. For good or ill, the coming of Noel de Servian was the will of the Auld Ones.

And there was naught to alter that.

Peat burned bright in the fireplace, doing its best to dispel the wintry wind howling outside. The cold walked through the stone walls as if they were not there. It seemed strange. He burned with fever, the internal heat ravaging his mind, yet she forced the fire to consume precious peat at a high rate to the point it was uncomfortable for her.

“Fighting fire with fire,” she said under her breath.

As Skena looked down upon the handsome man, she shook, not from cold, but from fear her healing skills would not be enough to pull him back from the brink. Once a mind crossed over the bridge of Annwyn—the Otherworld of the Auld Ones—it took a strong witch to use the dark words to craft a spell to hold tight to the soul. She had seen one or two men alive, but not ‘right’ in their head. Their bodies in this world, their minds already moved on to the shadows of Annwyn; two halves of the same soul forever divided. She was not sure she was strong enough to fight for this man and win.

In a hastily tossed on kirtle with the sides still untied, Jenna hurried in with the oilcloths, extra bedding, rags, and honey. “Water is heating on the fire, despite Cook’s grumbling about being awoken at this hour. Owen is fetching a bucket of snow as we speak.” She put the items down on the bench and then came to Skena where she was dabbing a wet cloth over Noel’s forehead. “How is he?”

“He worsens, I fear. When his calling awoke me, he still recognized me. Now…” Her shoulders gave a small shrug. “I am not so sure.”

When he suddenly began coughing, Skena winced. Thick fluid was building up in his chest; his breathing was labored. Each passing breath saw de Servian growing sicker.

Weakly, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. A feeble grin spread over his mouth. “Skena. I remember.”

“Good. Struggle to stay with me. You must fight this,” she begged, combating the tears threatening to overwhelm her. She could not give in to them. She needed all her wits to win this coming battle.

Skena’s head whipped around as Owen came in with a large pail of snow. He carried the bucket to the table and set it on the floor beside it. “Hope this is enough, Skena. I will fetch more as you need it.”

“Thank you. Go help Cook with the hot water.”

“Aye, I will.” He paused by her side. “Skena, I did not go outside the wall when I gathered the snow, but fetched it from beside the stable where it was clean. The horses were kicking up a fuss, especially that big white stallion belonging to your knight.”

“Why?”

“Wolves. They were scratching at the postern gate, trying to dig their way in. Several. A pack from the sounds of it.” Owen stared at her with dark, worried eyes. “Mayhap we need to give them something to fight over. Kill one or two of them. Wait until they come close, then we could down them. Let the horde feast upon their own.”

She almost echoed the ‘we,’ but as a question. What he suggested was that
she
would kill the wolves as the animals ventured close. None of Craigendan’s women were good enough with the bow to hit a wolf and fell him. Galen no longer could pull the bowstring with enough force to bring a beast down, and Owen had trouble seeing well at distances.

Everything always fell upon her shoulders. Skena closed her eyes to hold tight against her rising fear. Not one wolf—she would be dealing with the pack. Too clearly, she could summon the image of the black wolf jumping for her throat, the smell of his blood as it splashed her face. A nightmare to face that horror again. Even so, she had no choice. If the wolves were digging their way into the compound, they would have to be stopped by one means or another.

Keeping her counsel, she did not want to tell the boy she had a similar idea, but with a different outcome. Mayhap they could create a blind and lure one or two wolves at a time into the outer ward, and drop them as they entered the pen. As she had told them before, meat was meat. Why should the wolves have a full belly and her people go hungry? Desperate times made for desperate deeds. Somehow, it seemed the only reasonable alternative. In one single effort, she would be removing the threat of the wolves, but in a manner that helped Craigendan’s people as well. Another of life’s hard choices she was forced to make.

Still, she was not going to reveal her forming thoughts to Owen. The lad could never keep a secret behind his teeth if he tried. Should she tell him she planned on luring the wolves inside the outer bailey with designs of seeing them in the stew pot, it would be on every set of lips in the whole bloody fortress before dawnbreak. Her way, the people would warm to the scent of a hot hash without fashing overly about where the meat came from.

“Let me get through this crisis. Then I will sort out marauding wolves. Tell Galen to set someone to guarding the gate. We cannot afford to have them dig their way under the door before I can address the matter. Alert those on the wall to keep a sharp eye and ear. The pack might find another corner to tunnel under since they have started looking for the weak spots.”

“I will, Skena.” He gave her a nod and hurried off.

Going to the table she took a large rag and folded it in half. She scooped two handfuls of snow from the bucket and piled them at the center of the material. Then, she laid the material over itself twice; thus it was cold, yet the ice would not touch his flesh. She had to drop his fever fast, but dare not apply the snow directly to his skin because of the earlier exposure. It could deepen any previous damage.

“De Servian, can you hold on to me and raise up just a bit?” She tried to help lift him. The man was a dead weight, so solid was his muscle.

The coughing halted as he offered her a weak grin. “Noel.”

That brought a smile to Skena. “Ah, so your thoughts remain with me. I need you to sit up just a wee bit. I want to put an oilcloth over the pillow so this will not soak the bedding. Then I will apply this cold press to the back of your neck. Can you lift up?”

He started coughing again, but nodded. Even as sick as he was, he showed amazing strength in holding on to her and pulling up as she asked. She quickly slid the oiled cloth over the pillow, and then formed the covered snow to his neck, finally easing him back.

“C-cold,” he complained.

She patted his hand where he still clutched her. “Oh, aye. I will only keep it there for a short spell each time. It will help combat the fever.”

He offered her a faint nod, but already she could see his teeth starting to chatter.

“Jenna, mix some snow with the water in the bowl on the table. Only a little. I don’t want it too cold. Enough to see if we can break the fever. When that’s done, you may leave.”