One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  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.”

  Muriel looked contrite. “Beg pardon, Skena. In my panic I forget the burdens you carry.” She paused, her eyes lifting upward to the tower. “What about the braw man in your bed? I have seen you tending him. You favor him. Aye, he needs care for the short term, but he is a fine man. You will find naught better if you search the breadth of this land. A proper lord he would make for Craigendan.”

  If only. Skena choked back the pain fisting around her heart and pointed out, “We truly ken little about the man. He might be an ogre by nature.”

  Muriel laughed mockingly. “Clutching straws, Skena? My eyes may not be as sharp as they were a score year ago, but that man is quality. Few like him about. You want him—do not deny this. Your eyes speak the story, lass. Cease waiting for life to happen. Take what you want before men fashion the path of your destiny.”

  “Shut your gub and let me gather my wits.” She tried to sound stern, the lady of the keep. Muriel chuckled. Skena could not stop the blush spreading up her neck and to her cheeks as she noticed all eyes upon her. “Och, everyone, go about your chores. Fetch some bread and cheese. Warm some cider. They will be cold, weary from the long ride in the snow. We have guests acoming. Snap to.”

  Skena fisted her hands, thinking how the fare for these Englishmen would be food from the mouths of Craigendan’s people. Well, there was naught for it. She had to treat this Englishman with all respect due to their overlord. Mayhap things would work out. With Earl Challon being kinsman, mayhap she could indeed apply for support.

  “If wishes were cows we would not starve this winter,” she muttered, and glanced down at her faded kirtle, disheartened she had no time to change. Well, they were a poor holding. No use to put on airs and pretend otherwise.

  Galen hurried in, his face drawn. “Skena, I came as soon as I heard. ’Tis truth? The Black Dragon comes?”

  “We learn shortly.” Skena curled her fingers into her palms to hide the trembling.

  Chapter Ten

  Skena stood before the huge fireplace in the Great Hall, pretending to watch the blaze. There was beauty in the peat’s flickering blue flames. Still, she found no solace in the warmth, instead fretted if there were enough peats to get them through the winter, knew they had not cut any to lay aside for next year. To keep de Servian cosseted, she had burned thrice the number of blocks that she would for herself alone. She had been so frugal with their rationing this past month. Worry gnawed at her mind. Everything seemed tainted with the specter of unease of late. Each time she swore things could not get worse, some trouble came along and increased her woes tenfold.

  “Believing things cannot grow worse is like having faith in wishes. If wishes were wings, I would will them to carry this bloody English dragon back to his lair and leave me in peace,” she spoke lowly to the fire.

  The double doors were jerked open, causing her head to snap up. Her stomach tightened, preparing for the coming order. She was not a weak woman. Oh aye, she was stubborn, willful, mayhap too willful according to Angus. However, to face this Black Dragon was an ordeal she was not girded for. Never in her whole life had she fainted, but the prospect loomed in her mind as a very real possibility. Her blood jumped as her eyes locked on the tall man flanked by his entourage.

  So this was the Earl Julian Challon.

  He paused halfway to her and removed his leathern gloves, which he passed off to a smaller man behind him, likely his squire. Then he removed the helm and pushed back the mail coif, revealing a riot of black curls. If she had not gazed upon the countenance of Noel de Servian, she would instantly have said she stared into the face of the most handsome man she had ever seen. Clean-shaven in the Norman way, his strong jaw and sensual mouth were revealed in their perfection. As he neared, she saw the green eyes flecked with shards of dark amber returned the same scrutiny as hers. Skena’s stomach muscles flexed hard, wondering about the opinion he was forming of her. She was not dressed in the finery of a lady of her station. She was tired, worn thin by work, fear, and nursing de Servian for three straight days. The face she presented to him was shadowed by the uncertainties she found harder and harder to hide.

  “Good morrow, Earl Challon. I am Lady Skena MacIain. I bid you well-come to Craigendan. Please be at home in my humble keep. May I offer food and drink to you and your men after your cold, hard ride?” Where she found the ability to speak she did not know. Her throat was corded with tension.

  He inclined his head slightly. “My men would appreciate something warm, aye.”

  “A mulled cider or mead?” she offered, motioning to the bench by the fire for him to sit and warm himself.

  Instead, he stepped to the fire and held out his hands to it. “Either would be most well-come. Howbeit, I am not the earl. I am Guillaume Challon, Baron Lochshane.” He offered her a gentle smile. “I fear I am still unaccustomed to the title as yet.”

  This man was one of the bastard half-brothers of the earl. Back in the spring, the Earl Challon had raised his brother, Guillaume, to be the lord of Lochshane and set the betrothal to her cousin, Rowanne. That she was not dealing with the Black Earl, as Julian Challon was called, caused the faint trembling within her to lessen. The baron was an imposing man, mayhap even a shade taller than de Servian. A formidable warrior indeed, but the fact he was not his powerful brother eased the fretting a small measure. Likely this man would not rule upon the fate of Craigendan. That left the question of why he was here.

  She nodded to a servant to bring in the food and drink for the Englishmen. She grit her teeth when several of the lasses began blushing around the men. Ah, a keep full of females and no men for months was a dangerous situation. She needed all of Craigendan’s secrets shielded from prying eyes. Obviously, these Norman warriors would have to stay the night; it was too far for them to journey back to Lochshane with night falling so soon in the day. She would have a hard time seeing some of the keep’s workers did not climb into the pallets of Baron Lochshane’s men. It was too easy to let something slip when the mind was on matters of the flesh, she feared.

  “My lord, pray what drives you out into the snow to pay a visit to Craigendan?” She tried to pose the question to sound as naught more than polite curiosity. “To be sure, you hardly enjoyed the ride here in the aftermath of the worst snowstorm we have ever seen.”

  “Sometimes demons drive men to extreme measures, my lady.” He chuckled at some private jest. “In this circumstance, ‘they’ seized on the excuse of hunting for an old and very dear friend. Men from the party of Sir Noel de Servian were found wandering in the storm near the passes of Glen Shane. We took them back to Lochshane, but we failed to locate their master. This morn we turned our hunt in your direction after finding his helm on the road to Craigendan. I thought it possible that when he became lost he might have found shelter here. The dun is the nearest shelter to where the helm was discovered. Did my friend, perchance, make his way to your gate?”

  Suppressing the urge to look at the ceiling, as if she could see through stone and mortar to where de Servian lay resting, she swallowed back the words that were eager to spring forth from her tongue. Oddly enough, her first impulse had been to answer with an untruth. Lies came too easily these strange days. Her heart cried out that this man would take her knight away, so urged her not to let him discover Noel was in the lord’s chamber. Sheer folly. Despite the children making a wish, Noel de Servian was not summoned from the mists by a Kelpie. There would be no hiding him from Lord Challon.

  She inhaled slowly to steady her
self, realizing she danced on treacherous ground. It was folly to lie to this man any more than necessary. “Aye, we came upon Lord de Servian out in the snow. He had fallen from his horse.”

  Guillaume Challon’s eyes were too sharp. He took note of her unease. What a fool she was. This man was a mighty warrior, used to dealing with his powerful brother, kings, and the nobility of three countries. A simple country lass unused to games of intrigue was no match for him. Instead of demanding to know where de Servian was, he merely gave her a faint smile and waited. There was a calm determination in this man of Challon that bespoke they could play games of staring all night and he would always come out the winner.

  “Bloody dragon,” she mumbled under her breath.

  He arched a brow. “Beg pardon, my lady?” He had heard her. She saw the intelligence flicker in the hazel-green eyes.

  “Lord de Servian is in the lord’s chamber. Resting.”

  Concern filled his stare. “Night seems to come at midday in this land, but the hour is still early for Noel to be abed. Was he injured in the fall?”

  “Nay, I fear an injury he sustained early this year distresses him.” Noticing how her hands shook, she clasped one in the other, determined for him not to see how rattled she was. Skena glanced up as the food and cider were placed on the table. “Come warm your innards and then I will take you to see Lord de Servian.” She started to turn toward the table, but he caught her upper arm and restrained her with a firm though gentle touch.

  “I prefer to see Noel now, my lady.” It was a request, yet his soft tone was steel. He was not asking, but commanding.