One Snowy Knight (9 page)

“Skena, oh, come quick!” Elspeth called as she rattled into the hall, her frail frame scarcely able to bear the heavy mail and armaments she wore. The baldric about the girl’s hips swung loosely, nearly causing her to trip in her rush forward. Shoving the sheath to her side, she removed the too-large helm and pushed her sandy-colored hair back from her worried face. “Riders come through the draw. Mayhap a score. What shall we do?”

“Och, not bloody Duncan Comyn again? You’d think the lackwit would stay by fireside with the snow up to his arse and leave us in peace.” Skena exhaled irritation at the prospect of facing him again. “Just what I did not need this day.”

She was tired, hungry, and short-tempered. Three days of tending de Servian saw her worn down and in little mood to deal with any man, especially one by the name of Comyn. She had come belowstairs to eat, and then hoped to curl up on her pallet and rest before she collapsed.

“Nor any other,” Muriel said, setting aside the basket of wool she was preparing to spin. “The bloody
amadan
seizes upon the storm as a reason to come sniffing around Craigendan again. I mislike Comyn’s so-called caring over your welfare, Skena. He watches you in a way that rubs against my grain.”

“Like a half-starved wolf he prowls the border of late, conjuring excuses so he can turn up at the drop of a pebble. Always with a perfectly logical explanation for his visit, always so solicitous,” Skena agreed with Muriel’s opinion.

“Mark words, lass, a Comyn ne’er did aught to help another soul. Those wolf eyes view Craigendan and you as his next meal.” Muriel clucked her tongue and shook her head. “He ain’t the knave his brother Phelan was, true, but I still hold no shred of trust in the man. And neither should you.”

Skena huffed a dry chuckle. “I would sooner cuddle an adder to my breast.”

Muriel nodded. “Nary a tear was shed when Phelan Comyn drew his last breath nearly four months past, even if it were by an English hand, as some say. Not sure if many would spill ones for Duncan either. Still, best beware in handling that one, lass.”

Duncan Comyn’s continued interest in Craigendan unsettled Skena. She feared he had already twigged out how few men were within the curtain and merely waited for their female weakness to see them at their most vulnerable before he made his move. A shiver crawled up her spine at the image of that ever coming to pass.

“Nay, ’tis not The Comyn.” Elspeth shook her head. “’Tis English—men bearing the standard of the Black Dragon. The snowdrifts see them moving slowly up the grade, but they will reach here anon.”

“The Black Dragon?” Rattled by the news, Skena nearly dropped the earthen pitcher she held. With an unsteady hand she carefully placed it on the trestle table, next to the boughs of evergreens they were preparing as decorations for the Yuletide celebration. She could not let others see how the news troubled her. Biting back the flare of bile rising in her stomach, she asked with a calm she failed to feel, “The Earl Challon comes?”

“I cannot say if ’tis the earl, but his pennon—the green dragon on a field of black—stands out clearly against the snow. Either he comes or sends a messenger in his stead.” Elspeth set the helm down on the end of the table. “Oh, Skena, why now? Why does the dark lord come? Surely only something of great import would drag him out in these drifts. Earl Challon has paid little heed to Craigendan since he became the new lord of Glenrogha. Outside of the Dragon taking Angus’s homage back in the spring—”

“And then my lord husband imprudently broke his troth nary a week later by going to fight the English at Dunbar.” That fact had caused Skena deep misgivings, leaving her with many a sleepless night since May when word came of the Scottish defeat. Whispers of awe and fear told that even hard-bitten men dared not cross the Earl Challon. Few e’er tried and live to boast about it.

Well, Angus was dead; there would be no punishment to rain down upon his stubborn head. Craigendan, her children, and ultimately she would bear the backlash of his foolish choices. She had begged Angus to stay out of the coming fight, allow the nobles to carry on their heedless politics and war. Craigendan was best served by their men staying home and protecting what little they had. But nay, hardheaded Angus had to ride to the Comyn standard. Not listening to her, he argued the time had come for Scots to stop their petty clan squabbles and stand together to drive the English back over the border. He feared Longshanks intended to bleed the country dry with taxes, or worse, parcel out Scottish fiefs to his English lackeys.

Later, she learned that neither Phelan nor Duncan had ridden to the call of their mighty cousin until the last hour; both since had claimed they arrived too late to take part in the battle. It little surprised her. Skena knew Duncan never looked you square in the eye when he spoke of it. That had been the difference between the two brothers. Both were liars. Only, Phelan could stare you stone cold in the face, showing the countenance of an angel, while untruths spilled over his teeth. Duncan lied as easily as his older sibling had, but he was unable to meet your eyes. Skena figured knowing that quirk might someday work to her advantage.

Scant days after the Scottish defeat, Duncan had returned to deliver the tides that Angus had died in combat. Boasting that his brother and he were some of the few Scottish nobles left free in the aftermath, he said the biggest measure of the Scots’ aristocracy were in irons and sent south to England or were dead. ’Tis spake upwards of five-hundred score Scots were killed on the field of Spottsmuir—a resounding rout, yes, yet it still drew the ire of the English king. Word came many prisoners had been sentenced to death by horse trampling.

Since that day, she awoke each morn fearful news would come that the new earl of Glenrogha had decided Craigendan needed a new lord, a loyal English one. This fate had not ensued, so after a time she figured the mighty Black Dragon had deemed her keep too small of a concern to bother with. Reports unquestionably had reached his ears that Craigendan had no master. Still, he had failed to pay the smallholding a visit during the summer months, not even after he and Tamlyn had returned from Parliament at Berwick, which the English king had called back in August.

Skena rubbed her forehead trying to keep the fears at bay, seeing all eyes in the Great Hall looking to her for reassurance. Well, she had none to spare. The summer months had been trying, seeing the harvest wither and die from the drought. For a time her people had carried water from the burn to see that the crops they needed to survive grew. The struggle had been a losing one. Too soon, it had turned to a desperate effort to fetch enough water just to see that the animals lived.

Summons had gone out for all Scots nobles and landholders, commanded to show themselves before Edward Longshanks and to sign documents of fealty and homage, or face being attainted. The English now laughed and called the document “Ragman Roll.” Luckily, Skena had received no such orders, possibly because her holding paid homage to the Earl Challon; he was already Edward’s man. She had taken the coward’s path and not travelled to the big city on the eastern coast. Her choice had been a gamble. Did she fail in not going, earning the English ire for it might be seen as an insult? The lesser of two evils was to stay and wait. If she had shown her face at Berwick, immediate attention would have been drawn to the fact that her lord husband was dead, killed in rebellion against the English king, thus ensuring he would set a new man in Angus’s place. The powerful ruler would have sealed her fate then and there.

She had heard the monarch did not set much store in Scots females holding lands and titles. Had he not commanded Challon to come claim Tamlyn and her
honours?
Was not the Lord Guillaume betrothed to her cousin Rowanne and the other brother, Simon, to wed Rowanne’s sister, Raven? Damian St. Giles, Lord Ravenhawke was now husband to cousin Aithinne. None of these ladies had e’er raised a hand against Edward Plantagenet, and yet their fate had been decreed according to his whims. How well would she have fared against this mighty ruler, when her husband had actually lifted his banner for the Scottish army and raised men to kill English soldiery?

Autumn had come, and still, no one made a move against Craigendan. As no dire fate from the English had befallen her and her people, she considered applying to the Earl Challon for men to protect the fortress and to hunt for meat in deep winter, making him awares of the grim circumstances facing all in her smallholding. Just a little aid would mean such a difference in getting through this season. After all, he was not only their overlord, but now kinsman, a cousin by marriage.

What stopped her were the children. She feared what would happen to her, to them. Challon would likely place a man of his choosing as governor of the keep, possibly force her to marry, thus putting in jeopardy the rights of Andrew and Annis to this land.

Mayhap it was only a matter of putting off the eventuality, but she had hoped they could muddle along until she came up with some acceptable solution to the predicament. Craigendan needed a lord, and a new lord it would soon get. She simply hoped this time to have a say in who would be her husband. She had always envied that right of the Ogilvie heiresses. She had Ogilvie blood in her veins, but was not of the line that held the ancient charter from old King Malcolm. Scottish and English kings alike had once honored that decree.

“The skein of time has unraveled,” Skena said under her breath.

Tamlyn’s new husband would view the fortress as virtually undefended. Skena glanced at Elspeth, rigged out in mail and armor so she would appear a man when she strolled upon the boulevard of the curtain wall. Her stomach tightened, staring at her too thin kinswoman. She had little hope the women of the keep would fool the trained eye of this mighty lord. Julian Challon would never accept the current situation. While Craigendan was small and insignificant compared to the three vast fortresses belonging to her cousins, the daughters of the Earl Kinmarch, it was a key to protecting the back of Glen Shane. The Black Dragon would not permit that to go without remedy once he ascertained the situation.

Skena’s dread must have been reflected upon her face.

“Oh, Skena, what do we do?” The girl’s huge eyes filled with fear.

“We?” Skena echoed, feeling faint. There was never a ‘we’ to help Skena bear the burdens or make decisions.

She fought the shudder snaking through her body. Mayhap she had been foolish to turn a blind eye to the realities of the bleak situation, waiting instead of taking the dilemma in hand and wedding a man of her choosing, before either the earl or his king could seal her fate. Only, facing the prospects of another marriage to a man she did not love held little lure for her.

Her mind instantly conjured the image of Noel de Servian. So clearly, it was almost as if he were standing there. Her insides twisted as the wanting slammed through her entire being.

“It does no good to make wishes as Andrew did. Fate has never been so kind to me,” Skena muttered, then blinked to banish his vision. Drawing a ragged breath she forced a smile to bolster all watching her. “Elspeth, hie you to the wall. Alert our women on the curtain to keep their heads down and stay away from the men coming in. Especially Dorcas. Tell her I will take a switch to her back if she dares lift her head to one. All must be about their watch, just as our men would patrol. Leave me to deal with this bloody English dragon.”

Skena gave Elspeth’s arm a small squeeze as she sent her off, flinching at how thin the lass felt. Her cousin had never been a strong woman, and since losing her betrothed at Dunbar, the girl seemed to be wasting away. Selfishly, Skena had spent the summer hiding from the fact that marriages would need to be made for the women of her clan and for herself. There were no other alternatives. The crux of the problem came in that the nearest men were from Clans Comyn and Campbell, both having lands pushing up against the far border of Craigendan. Each clan had long craved to get their hands on Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. She feared they saw Craigendan as a means of getting a foothold into the Ogilvie lands.

Had not Duncan Comyn already come around repeatedly since his brother’s death last August? Rumor said Lord Ravenhawke killed Phelan; others spoke of the Dragon himself dispatching Phelan Comyn. Most had shrugged and muttered it was no big loss. Phelan had not been popular with the men, since he oft dallied with married females. For some fool reason, the Scotsman had rashly led an attack on the Challon party as they returned from Parliament. As a result the second son, Duncan, was now the new chief of the Comyns of Dunkeld. After claiming his brother’s place in the clan, Duncan had turned his attention to Craigendan, claiming he wanted to pay court to Skena.

“Stuff and nonsense. Men and their foolish schemes think women none the wiser to their lies and ways.” Skena dusted her hands on her apron and then untied it, attempting to make herself presentable. Her mother had not plucked her from a neep patch. She figured Duncan wanted Craigendan so he could turn it into a thorn at Lord Challon’s back. She wanted no part of being caught in the middle of a power struggle between Duncan Comyn and Julian Challon.

Muriel stepped close as Elspeth hurried away. “Dangerous times, lass. Tread carefully with this English Dragon. Remember he is overlord here.”

Skena sucked in a steadying breath. “I have nary a need for whispered warnings of things I already ken. I have heard how the mighty beastie’s name is uttered in dread. Hard-nosed men pale when they speak of Julian Challon. Still, think on it—Tamlyn is no fool. Word travels back that she is well pleased with her new lord husband. Norman-English he may be, but they say my cousin warms to her dragon. I pray this is so. Mayhap it will give me an edge in dealing with him.”

“I told you so—you should have taken matters into your hands and found a husband. Now you will be at the mercy of an Englishman.” Muriel continued to upbraid her for her lax handling of the impasse.

“Hush blethering. You spoke such to me so many times this summer.” Skena little needed everyone hanging on her elbow, telling her they were worried, or what she should have done. “’Tis too late. ‘What ifs’ and ‘should haves’ help no one. Cease the fashing. Let me find some measure of peace within myself before I have to face this arrogant and powerful male who holds the fate of all here in the palms of his hands.”