One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  De Servian’s eyebrows lifted as he dangled the ribbon, silently saying he failed to believe her. His expression softened. Most grey eyes seemed cold, emotionless. Not this man’s. Such concern flickered within their depths. It was hard to hold tight to her anger when she looked at him. Instead, she could only hear the words as he spoke about his mother’s death, see the lingering vision of the battle where he had nearly lost his life.

  “Skena, I regret you heard the tides of my being given Craigendan from Guillaume instead of me,” he offered his sincere apology.

  Skena felt as if she took a blow to her middle, reminded of what was at stake here. “Oh aye, but then you never had the chance to tell me did you?” Three days and three nights and the bloody man had not seen fit to inform her that he was the new lord here.

  “I bear the guilt. Only, I hoped you would come to know me before I had to tell you of the change,” he explained softly.

  Her hands trembled, so she hid them behind her hips. “Why? So we could become friends?” she countered.

  Noel slid off the bed, taking the cover with him. He wrapped it around his waist, and then stepped to her. “Friends?”

  His smile reflecting a jumble of emotions, he reached out and touched the backs of two fingers against her neck where her blood pulsed the strongest. He dragged them agonizingly downward, across her shoulder to the edge of the kirtle’s top, and then along the drawstring, setting off ripples of gooseflesh across her skin.

  Flames of desire roared through her. Everything about her receded to shadows as she could only see Noel. Anxious, she spared a quick glance toward Guillaume, to see what he made of de Servian’s attention toward her, yet she could barely pay heed to the other man.

  “We can be friends, Skena. I would like to hope for such. In time, mayhap more.” He tilted his head in question. De Servian finally dropped his hand as the door opened.

  Owen and Kenneth pushed through dragging a long bench, exactly like the one before the fireplace, followed by Galen. He glowered at the two Englishmen, but then looked to her. “Where do you want this thing, Skena?” The tone in his voice clearly bespoke he took orders from his lady, not these interlopers.

  Guillaume ignored that and instructed, “Set it against the other bench so they make a long table.”

  Galen’s mouth set as he met the Lord Challon’s eyes, man-to-man, not as a servant to a nobleman. Finally, he turned back to Skena, making evident to all he obeyed no one but her. Skena gave him a brief nod, telling him to do as the Norman lord wanted.

  After the benches were pushed together, she set about putting down two covers to make it more comfortable for de Servian. This would be a long process, and she wanted him as tranquil as possible. When she finished, she shooed the lads to the kitchen to fetch hot water. Galen wanted to stay and glower at the Englishman, but she sent him off as well. Ignoring the old man’s set mouth, Skena set tallow cups about to give them more light to work by.

  Stepping past her, Guillaume sat before the fire on a footstool, and began to sharpen a long thin blade. Skena watched him for an instant, revulsion spreading through the pit of her stomach, aware that blade would be cutting into de Servian.

  Noel paused before lying facedown on the makeshift table, and said, “Wipe that fool’s grin off your face, Guillaume, before I do it for you. Methinks you are too eager to prod me with that pig sticker.”

  “Another day’s passing would see you begging me to split that wound open with a dull, rusty knife. ’Tis ugly, getting darker with streaks fanning out from it.”

  “Close your eyes and rest for now,” Skena suggested, wanting to see him as comfortable as possible before they started the ordeal. “The potion will soon make you drowsy.”

  Pulling down the plaide to expose the tender site, she grimaced as she saw it was indeed much darker, the yellow-white pus center more pronounced. Skena swallowed back bile as she picked up the mawseed salve and began covering his lower back. He flinched when she neared the old wound, her fingers tracing the spidery marks radiating outward from it. Sir Guillaume was right. It had to be done now. There was no time to delay. The ‘bloody fingers’ reaching out from the wound site was the poison already migrating into his blood. It would soon kill him if not treated.

  Trying to keep her mind focused on her task and not the feel of his hard muscles, how stroking him caused her whole body to knot in hunger, she spoke. “I know it will distress you as I cover the sensitive area, but this deadens the pain. It will help some when we place the hot pads over it.”

  Noel gave her a short nod. “Let us be done with the gouging. I have been in bed too many days. There is much that needs handling.”

  Guillaume observed as Skena placed the prepared poultices in a large bowl. She saw doubts about her abilities in the bracketed corners of his mouth. “Have you done anything like this before?” he voiced his concerns.

  Skena shook her head. “We have not seen any major injury since our healer died. Even so, I assure you I am able to do what must be done.” She met his level stare. “I am stronger than I appear, my lord.”

  As if girding himself with the inevitability, he exhaled. It was clear he was not satisfied with her answer, yet was aware he had no choice. He lifted the bucket and poured steamy water into the bowl for her. “Ordinarily, it would take a half score men to hold down de Servian, and they would come away worse for wear, broken noses, bumps to their noggins, mayhap a cracked rib or two. While men enjoy a good fight, I cannot risk my friend wiggling about. If he remains still this will go quickly and can be handled without peril to him. Drugging him would be one way, but that can be unsafe. A pinch too much…” He shrugged.

  “We could tie him down, my lord,” Skena suggested.

  “Aye, but he could still flinch. A jerk while under the knife puts him in hazard. Another way is to prick a man’s pride. Ten men to hold Noel down.” Guillaume smiled, as he placed her pallet on the floor at the end of the bench. “Or one woman.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord?” Skena stared in confusion.

  “A trick we witnessed in the Middle East when we served King Edward. A man’s pride will see him accept great pain before he reveals weakness in front of a woman.” Guillaume took his sharpened knife and stuck the blade into the fire. “So call the old woman or that dour man to pass me things as I need them. Your task will be to sit on the pallet and aid him in keeping still.”

  “I will call Jenna. The course of treatment will take a long time. First, bringing the corruption to the surface, then lancing and drawing the remainder of the poison out, before sealing it again. It will go easier on her young legs.” Going to the door she found Galen there sitting in a chair. She frowned at him, and then asked him to fetch her maidservant.

  “Very well, we start.” Guillaume took her arm as she returned, and led her to the pallet. “Sit there on the pillow, Lady Skena, facing Noel.” Taking Noel’s right hand, he placed it about her lower arm, and then did the same with his other hand and arm. “Do not fear he will hurt you. Our Noel is an arrogant man and will want you to see how brave he is.”

  “Someday, Guillaume, I shall return this favor.” Noel chuckled, but then his expression turned serious as he looked to her. “Please, do not be scared. I would never bring harm to you, Skena.”

  Jenna came in as Guillaume placed a hot poultice to Noel’s side. Instant agony racked de Servian, but Skena saw him fighting against the mind-searing pain. Skena knew the longer the padding remained on him, the more intense his suffering would be. She felt the muscles of his whole body tense, yet his grip on her arms did not grow tighter. It was as Guillaume claimed: Noel held perfectly still, ever mindful of his grasp on her arms. Sweat beaded across his forehead from the intense strain.

  “Would you disapprove if I made one of those wishes you dismiss so blithely?” Noel nearly forced the words out.

  “’Tis your breath, but wishes are worth naught. If wishes were carrots, rabbits would have a full belly this night.” Skena tried t
o match his bravery, but tears welled in her eyes. “But then, mayhap we would have plenty of meat for hare stew.”

  Noel gave her a faint smile. “You still set no store in wishes, Skena? Is there aught I can say to change your mind? I once thought as you do, but life came full circle and I now have hope.”

  “Wishing never brought me a single thing in my whole life. Not once did it lighten my burden, bring me a chest full of gold, nor fill an empty larder. People spend too much time wishing for what they cannot have,” she countered.

  “What robbed you of the power to believe?” he asked, searching her face for the answer.

  I was forced to marry a man I did not love, and wishing changed naught. But Skena kept those words locked inside her. Unable to meet his soul-stealing eyes, she lowered her lashes.

  “Your children believe. They told me they wished for a knight protector to come and care for you and them.”

  “The children merely chanced upon you in the snow. You were already coming to claim Craigendan. Just happenstance.” Her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. She did not want to admit his words reached her.

  “So determined to doubt magic in all forms? ’Tis truth, I was headed to Glenrogha first. I wanted to see Julian, pay my respects to his new bride, see how married life suited them. I met her last August, envied the way she looked at Challon. Instead of reaching Glenrogha, Brishen was spooked by a huge flock of ravens and sent by sheer luck—or fate—on the road to Craigendan. I was knocked from my horse by a low-hanging limb, and lay there, finally becoming covered with snow. I wished for someone to find me before it was too late. Your children came. They were out on a stormy night chasing after an old crone—I believe they called her the Cailleach, the lady of winter. Had they not found me I would have died. Either the snow or the wolves…” He left that thought dangling in the air between them. Lifting her right hand to his face, he rubbed it against his cheek. “So you place little faith in wishes? What about Christmas wishes? ’Tis believed that miracles come at this time of year. That when one opens his or her heart anything is possible.”

  Guillaume removed one poultice and replaced it with another. Each time the pain would be worse for Noel. Skena felt her throat tighten, her vision blurring with unshed tears. Torn, she fought the passion he provoked within her and a sense of duty to her people and Craigendan.

  As another poultice was placed on his back, his whole body vibrated with a torture beyond enduring.

  “Open your heart, Skena. Let me in. Walk in my mind…” Noel whispered through his pain, “become one with me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Become one with him.

  Skena could not draw air as she stared into de Servian’s silver eyes. The rare inner ring of amber fixed in her mind and lured her into their mysterious depths, invited her to let loose the kenning and become a part of him. To embrace his soul. She knew the risk of allowing herself to freely touch him on this darker plane; the enormity of this sort of bond was terrifying. Their souls would weave together in a way that even the joining of the flesh could never attain. She would give away a piece of herself, forevermore leave her heart unshielded to this man who was barely more than a stranger. There would be no severing this tie. Not even death could stop its sway. With nary a protection against him, she would hand de Servian the power to destroy her.

  As Skena stared into Noel’s face, she felt the link already forming of its own accord, as if she had no free will to resist his entreating. With little thought to the possible dire consequences, she opened her mind and her heart to this special man.

  Instantly, her mind flooded with images—his images—of Noel laughing and training with four men very much alike, of his beautiful mother. Deep sadness seized Skena as she stood in his place, watched with his child’s eyes as they carried his lady mother’s cold, lifeless body into the castle. So many shards of de Servian’s past were there in flashes before her. Banquets in a king’s hall, sly looks of desire from various women, the ugliness of the battlefield; the jumbled patchwork of memories rolled through her senses so rapidly that she was dizzy from striving to focus upon each, to understand their meaning to him. In the end she gave up trying and simply allowed the scenarios to explode within her aching head.

  So much. Too much.

  Everything swirled around her, buffeted her, until she was tossed upon a stormy sea of blackness. She floated, carried along in that velvet, almost soothing quiet within the embrace of the cool green darkness of Annwyn. As she began to relax a wall of fire exploded about her, then a scream tore through her mind. Noel. Summoning the dark words, she whispered a charm to take his pain, turn it. She sought his presence, reached out and wrapped her arms about his strong warrior’s body and held on with every fiber of her being. The flames hungrily lapped at them, crawling up their bodies.

  “Noel.” His name fell from her lips

  He was her anchor. She would be his. Skena closed her eyes and leaned her head against the curve of his neck, inhaling the wonderful scent that was de Servian. The right scent.

  Chaos spun them about. With vertiginous force, Skena was yanked away from his protective arms and tossed back into the impenetrable darkness. As she opened her eyes the aroma of a balefire filled her nostrils. For a long moment she panicked, unable to see, then gradually she grew aware her eyes were clouded with tears. She blinked to clear her vision, setting droplets to stream down her cheeks. Slowly, forms assumed shapes and colors.

  Drawn onward by the flickering yellow glow, Skena forced her way through tall ferns. She started to push free of the lush woods, but hesitated before stepping fully into the clearing. A huge bonfire shot sparks high, spiraling into the night air, while men and women joyfully danced in wheels around the huge blaze, singing and moving to the rhythmic strains of the lute, pipes, and bodhrán. Confused, Skena stood watching. It seemed to be a Beltane celebration. People whirled around her, past her, almost as if they did not see her. With the smoke from the fire wafting about her, she began to wonder if she was naught but a wraith, merely summoned here to observe this festival of May.

  A feral war cry filled the clearing; at the same instant flames of the balefire were split by a man leaping through the fire. He landed before Skena with the grace and power of a catamount, lean, sensual, and all sinewy muscle. A mythical beast come to life, the creature, half-man half-stag, stood before her—the man-stag symbol of life reborn from the fire.

  His bare chest glistened with sweat. He was clad in doeskin breeches; they molded to his legs by the lacing of leather thongs up to his mid-thigh. He wore nothing else, though upon his head sat a mask with the antlers of a large buck. Although his face was completely covered by the antlered mask, she recognized him by the thin scar on his upper arm, one she had seen on de Servian that first night when she fought for his life. For several moments he stood perfectly still, causing her to wonder if he, too, failed to see her.

  Then with a magician’s turn, he held out his hand for her to come to him. Skena vacillated for an instant, still assailed, bewildered by how she was at a May Day celebration, how de Servian could be wearing the mask of the king-god sacrifice. This was an honor that went to a high ranking male within the clan. Never to an Englishman, an outsider. She stared at his upturned hand beckoning to her and then at the bizarre mask with tall antlers.

  Nothing made sense, thus she feared trusting the vision before her. She grew anxious that her mind was merely playing tricks, offering her what she so desperately wanted; she feared this man was not really de Servian. Trepidation died as she looked up into the eyes of liquid silver. No one had eyes like his. Once their stares locked there was no resisting the summons of his outstretched hand.

  Something about this man drew her, made her want to believe that Christmas wishes could come true.

  Noel lifted off the mask, and for an instant stared at the thing gripped in his hand, as if not understanding why he held the bizarre headdress. Allowing it to drop to the ground, he offered her a faint sm
ile. “Skena,” he whispered, half welcoming, half in puzzlement.

  She placed her fingertips to his lips, stopping the questions. Her intent had been to silence the endless riddles with no answers, yet as her eyes narrowed on her fingers touching his sensual mouth, envy flared in the pit of her belly. An endless, gnawing hunger unfurled within her, and for once in her life, instead of standing by holding unfulfilled hopes in her heart, she acted, raising up on her toes as her hand fell away.

  Noel’s eyes widened as he grasped her intent. His hands clasped her upper arms, squeezing as if he needed to make certain she was real. Urgency seizing him, he yanked her up and against his chest, his mouth meeting hers with the same burning need. He was not gentle. The kiss was as wild and as pagan as the music that flowed through the night air. This was elemental, primitive.

  Skena held nothing back, nor was she terrified by the unchecked feral nature in the way his mouth devoured hers. De Servian was not wooing. He was claiming. His lips were bruising, but she accepted it. Wanted it.

  She little cared they stood in the midst of the revelers. Her hands reached out and clung to his waist, fearing her legs too weak to support her. Not close enough, she let her arms slide around him, pressing her body against his, greedily caressing the strong muscular columns of his back.

  Finally breaking the kiss, he gasped, “Come with me…. Be one with me,” and took her hand in his.

  Skena’s feet felt rooted to the moist soil. This time the appeal to be one with him held a different meaning. As this bond of their minds now sealed their fates, weaving their paths together, what he asked would take them to another level, forge them in a union of Annwyn, the Other word. Yet, knowing the enormity of this step, she could no more resist what he wanted of her than she could cease breathing. For better or worse, Noel de Servian now led her on the shadowy path to the future.