One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “I thought Sir Guillaume was given Lochshane, that he would wed Rowanne come Beltane?” Muriel asked.

  “Not Guillaume Challon. The new lord of Craigendan is Noel de Servian.” Skena fought gritting her teeth over the prospect.

  Muriel’s spine straightened at the tides. “So that was his purpose for being out in the storm. Och, Skena, has the man said aught about his plans? What about you and the children? We needed a new lord, aye. We could not go on as we have. You kenned that, lass. This knight will bring needed men—”

  “Englishmen, mayhap paid mercenaries,” Skena sneered.

  Muriel nodded. “Oh, aye. Englishmen. But men still, Skena. Would you rather the Comyns or Campbells get their hands on this place? You have an English overlord now. You needs must keep peace with him. Times change. The specter of war and famine stalk this land. Make pax with de Servian. Seek out an advantage, thus ensuring our survival.”

  “Make pax? Pray tell how? I have naught to bargain with, Muriel. He will claim all, my heritage, that of my children. The only good thing of going through a loveless marriage with Angus was that Craigendan was protected, and that my son and daughter would one day rule here. Otherwise, all this, my whole life has been for naught.”

  Muriel stroked her hand over Skena’s back, allowing her to cry silently. “Angus was nay husband for you. He was a good man, most say, but he was none too smart. He never kenned what to make of you. He failed to recognize the rare gift he had been given. Or mayhap to the point, he did know how fine you were, too fine for the likes of him. You two never found a level ground. That is the past. Turn your eyes to the future. Your marriage to him gave you two perfect children you love very much. More so, it brought you to this point in time. What is behind us molds us, sees us who we are. You are made stronger because of your past, stronger than you suspect.”

  “Strong? I stand here rattling to pieces and crying like a bairn,” she choked on her scoff.

  “Hush this fashing. You are beyond weary. You have stayed up nursing Lord de Servian, and not been eating again. Stop that. ’Tis important to all here that you keep your wits about you. You must deal with this new lord—”

  “You keep saying that. But how? There is naught left with which to bargain. He will turn me out to go begging to Tamlyn or Aithinne for a home for me and my children.”

  “And they would take you in without hesitation. I doubt that will come to pass. Bargain with what every woman always barters with.” Muriel moved to the door, leaned out, and called for Jenna.

  “Muriel, is aught a matter?” Jenna came in, looking from Muriel to Skena. “Oh, lass, what has happened?”

  Muriel snapped, “Nevermind. No time to blether. Have some stew fetched for Skena. Then go to the lord’s chamber and collect a fresh sark and kirtle—not her best, mind. No need to be too obvious about feminine wiles. Men always come faster to fate when they believe ’tis their own notion. Something comely. Also fetch her comb and a ribbon for her hair.”

  Skena held her tongue until Jenna left, and then rounded on her former nurse. “What games play you, my dear friend?”

  “From the dawn of time men have waged wars upon these isles. They run stag mad, locking antlers, paying little heed to poor females who must stand by and deal with the aftermath. Women learn to wage war as well, though not with sword and lance, but with what the Auld Ones gifted them—their minds and bodies.” Muriel glared back at her with quiet determination when Skena frowned. “Craigendan needed a new lord. You kenned that would happen. Well, we got one. He needs a little fixing, true, but that works to our betterment.”

  “Muriel, what are you saying?”

  “Do not go simple on me, lass. The man has come to us. ’Tis up to you to bend him to your will,” Muriel insisted.

  “What if he has other notions?” Skena bit the corner of her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Give him no chance. His being sick means you are there caring for him, seeing to his needs. Use this time to speak to him, let him learn about you and Craigendan. Offer him something to fix his desires upon.”

  “He is a bloody Sasunnach.” Skena threw up her hands.

  “Tamlyn has accepted her English dragon for a mate. They speak that Aithinne actually had her brothers carry off Lord Ravenhawke and chain him in her bed. Your cousins are smart enough to learn the way of things. Follow their example.”

  Skena shrugged doubt. “I do not think I could ever be so bold as to chain a man in my bed.”

  “’Tis nary a need. He is already there, naked. Men can be shaped lass through touch, through longing. Those silver eyes watch you with a bottomless hunger.”

  Skena sighed in misgiving and dejection. “I could not shape the will of Angus.”

  “You ne’er really tried. Closing your eyes and doing your wife’s duty is no way to control a man. I have a feeling with that one abovestairs you will want your eyes wide open. There’s the difference. Trust me.”

  Skena felt ready to break down and cry again. Grabbing the sides of her kirtle, she spread the material. “Look at me. A fright these days, I appear like a serf. I would turn no man’s head…let alone someone like him. He could have any woman he wants.”

  Muriel clucked her tongue and then smiled. “Then you admit you would like to turn that lord’s head. A step in the right direction. Mayhap the children’s wish was true. They yearned for a braw warrior to come protect us. We were in a sore need. The Auld Ones show you the path, but expect you to fight to make choices a reality.”

  Looking at her shaking hands, Skena felt defeat pressing down upon her shoulders. There was no way that beautiful man would want a tired mother with two pesky children. “Oh, how I wish the powers of my Ogilvie blood were stronger.”

  “You would witch him to your bidding?” Muriel seemed surprised. “There was a time you would deem such dishonorable.”

  “There was a time I ne’er lied either. These dark days call for drastic measures. As you say, a woman must make war with the few weapons granted her. I wish—”

  “Take care. Sometimes the Auld Ones enjoy a wee laugh, giving you what you yearn for, but not quite in the manner you envision.”

  “If wishes were neeps we would not starve this winter. Och, I give up wishing! ’Tis only for children who still believe in magic.” Putting a hand to her waist, she took a steadying breath. “Oh, Muriel, this is hopeless! I will make a bloody fool of myself trying to woo de Servian’s favor. I have no skills in this.”

  Muriel shook her head as she plucked herbs out of the boxes. “You should not adjudge these things by past experiences. You had no desire for a trough-fisted husband, thus not inspired to learn about that side of your nature. Well, you have all the inspiration any woman should desire up there in your bed. Stop fashing and fix your mind on the chore ahead.”

  “I wish—”

  “You just said you swore off wishes. Hold true, lass. This is nary a moment for wishes. ’Tis a time for deeds.”

  Skena lifted the dried sprig of verbane to her nose. Inhaling the fruity scent, she closed her eyes. Images of Noel de Servian filled her mind, the longing so acute she wondered if Muriel could be right. Had she not been able to walk in his mind? Never before had she achieved this. Did that not hold significance?

  “Oh, bother.” She frowned, running her hand through her long hair. “Lies and wishes. I have had enough of both to last a lifetime!”

  “Both are our nature, lass. We seek hope for solutions, and when they do not come, we stoop to lies. Your body tells you one thing. Logic adds its own voice. Only, you feel duty too strongly. You are loyal to a fault, even to a husband you did not love. These are sinister days, Skena. Angus arrogantly followed his fate to Dunbar and paid the price. Loyalty to him cannot be put before devotion to your children, to the people of our clan. Forget the past. Time to face forward and do what you needs must.” Muriel reached up and brushed her hair away from her cheek. “You ken the choices. Go live on the succor of others? Seek the veil
and become a sister at some nunnery? Or take a husband. Longshanks was bound to send a man to replace Angus. If he had not, then the Earl Challon would place his own man in charge. Count your blessings, lass, that Noel de Servian is the new baron. Fix his desires upon you. Forge a new life for you both. Stop fashing about Fate being cruel, and count the blessings of the Auld Ones. They gave you the means to save your place here. If you but have the courage.”

  “I never had courage like Tamlyn or Aithinne. They could look a dragon in the eye….” She caught herself, realizing her unintentional jest.

  Muriel chuckled. “Aye, they have looked at dragons and tamed these English beasties. Do you not see how hard it must have been for them? Reared by a man who allowed them their heads, they ruled their holdings without benefit of a man’s control or advice. You are accustomed to reining in, curbing your wants and needs to what Angus allowed. Compromise, lass.”

  Skena felt despair washing over her. “Oh, Muriel, I am scared.”

  “A woman’s lot. But we face our fears. We use our wits,” she winked at Skena, “and our bodies, and fashion our lives the best we can. Remember he is not even a real dragon, but a foster dragon.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “’Tis simple. You only seek to make it more complicated than it is.” Muriel hugged her. “’Tis a matter of seeing what is good, and what can be changed, instead of bemoaning things that are not perfect. Nothing is ever perfect. Life is the best we can make of it. You are stronger than you ever see. A late bloomer, you grew up under Angus’s iron will. Seize your inner power. Stop looking at your hands, Skena. Salve will heal them. Believe me, a man does not inspect a woman’s hands when he wants her. You have the chance, lass, to turn fate, shape how things will go for Craigendan. Mayhap even find something more in life than you ever expected outside of dreams.”

  Open your heart, Skena, and make a wish with the trust of a child.

  Forgetting her lack of faith in hoping, Skena closed her eyes and opened her heart, but wished with the trust of a woman wanting something she had never had.

  Love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Holding a wooden box full of everything she would need for lancing de Servian’s back, Skena marched up the winding staircase. It rankled that Guillaume Challon had sent for her, ordered her immediate presence as if she were naught but a servant.

  “Bloody dragons think they are special. The world trembles at their feet. Ha! I have a mind to give this one a proper set down,” Skena grumbled to herself, trying to build her courage.

  Muriel trailed behind her, carrying a stack of linen cloths. “Lass.”

  The woman’s one word caution caused Skena to frown. Pausing on the step, she glanced over her shoulder. “Muriel, did you say aught?”

  Muriel’s laugh was mocking. “Cease the mummery. I am the one hard of hearing these days, not you. You are just hardheaded. Keep your eyes on the goal, Skena, not on your wounded pride. Men are an arrogant lot. Methinks these Norman lords of Challon are likely worse than most, a power unto themselves. Men such as them give orders offhand; comes natural to them, so they ne’er stop to think how they sound. If you were to beard this dragon about his brisk order, he would be flummoxed you took umbrage. Request or command—’tis the same to them. They expect to be obeyed. Battle for the things that matter most; ignore what you cannot change or what has little true and lasting value.”

  “How did you get so wise, my friend?” Skena offered Muriel a smile.

  Despite silver kissing her thick red hair, Muriel’s soft brown eyes shone with an eternal beauty. “By making too many mistakes in my long life. I but try to save you from the same missteps.”

  Skena leaned over and placed a light kiss on the elderly woman’s cheek. “Thank you, dear Muriel. I remain indebted to you for being my guide. You are a second mother to me.”

  “And you are the daughter I wish I bore instead of that ruddy slattern I gave life to. I swear she is a changeling, switched at birth. Dorcas cannot be of my blood.” Muriel’s mouth set as she thought of her only child, who she wished to perdition at least twice a sennight. “Remind yourself what is important and you will do right by us all.”

  With Muriel’s sage advice ringing in her ears, Skena banked her temper and entered the lord’s chamber. De Servian, with a plaide spread over his legs, sat propped up in bed. Across the room Guillaume Challon poked at the peat fire, stirring it to burn brighter. Skena’s steps faltered. She had to bite her tongue when she saw the stack of extra peat and the pile of splinted boards next to the fireplace. He would need the high wood blaze to make the poker hot enough to properly sear flesh, but she fretted over how much fuel it would use, nearly a week’s worth, she feared.

  Muriel set the stack of linen on the end of the bench, harrumphed a reminder to Skena, and then turned to leave. “If you need me, lass, I will be belowstairs playing shepherd.” Her way of telling Skena not to be anxious about Craigendan’s women and the English soldiers, that she would keep a watchful eye on everything.

  “Ah, there you are, Lady Skena,” Guillaume remarked needlessly, simply so he could pass along the hint of rebuke in his voice.

  At first, he barely spared her a glance. Then his head jerked back as he actually took her measure. Skena set her teeth to keep from replying, afraid he was going to scold her for taking time to change clothing and make herself more presentable while he waited. His eyes widened and slowly travelled down her body, then back to her face, taking in that she was now attired more in keeping with the lady of Craigendan. He inclined his head in approval, but offered no comment. There was an appreciative glint in his eyes, yet banked, as though he set her off limits. Since this man was to be her cousin Rowanne’s husband come spring, Skena gave him high respect that he was holding to himself, instead of applying the usual ‘out of sight, out of mind’ morals. Men too oft thought they could do as they pleased when away from the watchful eye of their wives or betrotheds. This man of Challon was a riddle, but she pretended not to notice his reaction as she sorted out the herbs and worts, lining them up on the tabletop.

  “You have everything needed in ready?” Guillaume inquired.

  “Aye, poultices made for drawing, salve for healing and to stop pain, and the mixings for a strong anodyne.” As she began measuring out the various dried leaves and barks into the bowl to grind, Guillaume moved to the table, closely observing everything she did.

  His voice was challenging. “What are you plying Noel with, Lady Skena? You said you have no healer. Are you so certain you know what you are putting in the potion?”

  “I am careful, my lord. I blend feverfew, willow bark, mandrake, and mawseed in mead as the anodyne for his pain. I have a salve with mawseed as well. We can apply it after the cautery.”

  “Mawseed? Poppy?” He lifted the vial and sniffed.

  “What some call it. I add in a few drops to free his mind from the intense pain he will feel. ’Tis not enough to harm him.” When he merely stared at her, Skena glared back, and then lifted the cup and drank a measure. “Satisfied?”

  Guillaume frowned. “That was hardly necessary, Lady Skena.”

  “Lord Challon, poisoning the new baron would hardly serve me or my people well, think you not?” Skena brindled. “As he is foster brother to the Dragons of Challon I ken it would mean my life should harm befall de Servian. I am not a lackwit.”

  “Never would I adjudge you as such. Howbeit, people have been poisoned carelessly by measurements of poppy and mandrake.”

  “Guillaume, leave Skena be,” de Servian called from the bed. “If you do not cease annoying her, I shall put my knee to your chest and allow her to pour the brew down your throat to prove to you that it’s safe.”

  Lord Challon chuckled. “Not in the condition you are in, my friend. Damian took an arrow to the chest and a couple to his thigh in August and recovers still. Even he could best you in a fair fight.”

  “Allow Skena to care for me. I could not ask for bett
er treatment than I have received at her hands.” De Servian’s words were soft spoken, but it was clear he would brook no opposition.

  Skena added a little more mead to the cup and carried it to the bed. She held it out to de Servian and then waited for him to take it.

  “More stump water?” Noel gave her a sensual smile.

  Her heart did a slow roll as heat flared in the pit of her belly. The worts and the drink were already starting to affect her, she feared, but that was little compared to de Servian’s sway over her. Could be something more potent hit my blood, overpowering the drink’s effect. Oh aye, she was smart enough to recognize it was this man who set that erratic fluttering in her chest. She knew he was baron here now, but that reality did little to stem the desire she felt for the Norman.

  “Nay, you should enjoy this. ’Tis mead—cider and honey. It will enhance the effect of the worts, take the edge off your pain. I want this to go as easy for you as possible.”

  “And do I get a reward for drinking this witch’s potion?” One corner of his mouth pulled up higher.

  Their eyes met as he took the goblet of mead; they were both remembering how he had kissed her the last time she gave him a tansy. He finally raised the cup in a salute, and then drank the contents in three swallows. As he passed it back to her, his pale eyes skimmed over her in the dark green sark. She had left off the shawl she often pinned at her left shoulder, allowing the low, square neck to go uncovered.

  “Green becomes you, Skena.” Fires of passion flashed in his smoldering gaze, as he reached out and took hold of her braid. Slowly, he unwound the plait and pulled the white ribbon from the thick mass. “I prefer it free.”

  Skena, dizzy and lost to the lure of the silvery depths with the ring of brilliant amber, had to force herself to remember Guillaume Challon watched them. Shrugging, she was now embarrassed she had fussed with her appearance in the hopes of pleasing him. “I merely wanted it out of the way while we worked.”