One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Noel, I love you,” she called after him, but the words were drowned out by the men’s laughter echoing in the hall.

  With a lightness of heart, Skena threw herself into preparations for the Yuletide celebration while the men were off hunting. Her time had been tied up tending Noel since they found him, thus her daily chores had been left to wait. The tally of things needing attention seemed endless. Distracting her from mundane tasks, the sight of holly and evergreen boughs, tied with red yarn around the posts and hung on the doors, lent color and cheer to the gloomy hall. Everything seemed so festive and happy. For the first time in months, Craigendan thrummed with hope instead of fear.

  Elspeth rushed up, lacing her fingers together before her to contain her excitement. For a change, color had returned to the girl’s cheeks. Not since the news of Dunbar and David’s death reached them had Skena witnessed the shine of life in her cousin’s eyes. “Skena, might I trouble you for sprigs of juniper for the fire? It would be a promise of new beginnings if we burned some in the fireplace to cleanse Craigendan of evil shades.”

  A shiver rippled up Skena’s spine at Elspeth’s speaking of lingering ghosts. Instantly, that shadowy image standing at the top of the stairs filled her mind. No matter how firmly she told herself that it had not been Angus, she failed to accept the conviction. A last shred of doubt refused to be banished.

  She squeezed Elspeth’s upper arm. “Grand idea, lass. You appear well. Might the twinkle in your eyes have something to do with that handsome squire of Lord Challon?”

  Elspeth lowered her gaze and blushed. “Is it wrong, Skena? I loved David, but…he is not coming back. I wanted to die for so long.” Her voice choked on the words. “Now, my heart beats again.”

  “What is this handsome squire’s name? He has not been made known to me.”

  “Emory Maynet. He is old enough to be knighted, but does not have coin to maintain that station. Lord Challon suggested that he might wish to stay and become Lord de Servian’s man, since he will need to import soldiery to protect us.” Again, she lowered her lashes as if afraid to hope. “If things come to pass…”

  Skena smiled. “The old broch?”

  Elspeth’s head bobbed in answer. “It comes to me through my Ogilvie blood when I wed. David and I had hoped to refit it with the Earl Challon’s blessing. It just…” Her cousin shrugged, confused by the ties to the past pushing against the yearning for a future.

  Skena understood those emotions only too well. “Times change, Elspeth. Life sometimes allows us no choices. Seize them with both hands when they do come to you. Nay, such wishes are not wrong, dear heart. ’Tis life going on.”

  “I have seen the way Lord de Servian looks at you. Methinks he will make a good lord here, Skena. More important, I sense he will make you happy. Angus was a good man, I suppose, a good provider, but he never made you blush. Sometimes…he hurt you not really meaning to.”

  Skena sighed at the truth. “De Servian is gentle with Annis. That touches my heart. For so long she has stood in the shadows, cringed when Angus bellowed at her.” Skena brushed her thumb over the small dip in her cousin’s chin. “You open your heart to Emory Maynet, if it feels right. Bring him to meet me. Mayhap by spring’s bloom you will start work on the old broch.”

  Impulsively, Elspeth grabbed Skena in a tight hug. “’Tis good to live again. Scary, but good.”

  As Skena headed down the dimly lit hallway, she spotted Ella coming in the opposite direction. She almost steeled herself for their passing. A strange woman, Ella was in charge of the geese and the pigs, and mostly kept to herself. Her pale hair was chopped short, unlike that of most women, not even touching her shoulders, and so coarse and straight that it held no natural softness. Her neck was thick and short, her features almost gnomish. Skena knew everyone could not be pleasing to the eye, but it was not merely Ella’s appearance that was off-putting; there was a baleful air about her that caused Skena to distrust her.

  There was plenty of room for them to pass without touching, but as they did, the squat woman’s shoulder knocked hard against Skena’s, causing her to back up a step to brace from losing balance. Frowning, she glared at the strange woman, wondering why she had done that.

  “Beg pardon, my lady. Me feets is so clumsy. Got a bad ankle, see. Goes out on me sometimes, it does,” she offered in a way of explanation. “I meant no harm.”

  Skena gave a nod, but failed to accept her words. An odd glint in the woman’s hooded eyes bespoke insolence, which in turn set off an alarm at the back of her mind. Skena had never liked Ella, but the woman generally stayed out of the way.

  “By your leave,” she gave an awkward bob, half-curtsey, half-bow, as if not sure which was proper, and then continued down the hall.

  At the stillroom door, Skena paused to ponder what Ella was doing in this part of the fortress. The woman only came into the Great Hall about once a fortnight; the remainder of her time was spent in the small hut on the edge of the outer bailey. Disquiet rippled through Skena. The peculiar woman had no purpose for being in the back part of Craigendan.

  Shrugging off questions, she untied her chatelaine from her belt and sorted through the keys. Just as she found the correct one, her movements froze. Though she could not say why, Skena suddenly felt she was no longer alone in the dark hallway. Prickles crawled up her neck as though she was being watched. Ella? Slowly, she lifted her head and looked down the hallway toward the kitchen to see if the woman lingered, spying on her. No one was in the long corridor. The hall was silent, save kitchen noises and Cook whistling while he went about preparing supper. She watched for a few heartbeats, but no one appeared. Telling herself it had been naught more than a servant going about chores, she started to insert the key, but then hesitated, so strong was the sense of someone’s being near. The ring fell from her fingers.

  As she stooped down to pick up the keys, Skena turned her head and stared into the long shadows. Since the torchlight did little to banish the darkness, she kept her eyes fixed there to adjust to the heavy gloom. Dizziness whirled through her mind, making her light-headed. She rose, fighting the sense of unreality brushing her mind. The strange sensation did not lessen, but increased with every draw of air. The kenning. That fey sense was alive now Noel had opened her heart, and it was warning her with a strength that compelled her to flee. No fool, she knew better than to ignore the presentiment.

  Skena considered her next step. Should she go investigate, or give pretense she was unaware something was off? Urgently seeking the right key, she quietly went through the ring again, but could barely focus on the shape of each.

  “Skena…”

  Gooseflesh rippled up her neck. Yet again, she looked in both directions. No one was there. Her name had been naught but a ghostly whisper, one easily conjured in the mind when rattled. She held perfectly still and listened. Oddly, she felt like a doe scenting the danger of a human.

  Then the dimness shifted.

  Her heart stopped, and everything seemed to bend in on itself. Shadows distorted, twisted, and reformed into a man, standing at the turn in the corridor. A force slammed into her as she stared at the silhouette that was only too familiar. “Angus.”

  Emotions swam through her, too many to sort out. Fear. Pain. Her soul howling, no! She would never wish him harm. Yet, for the first time in her life she held hope that true happiness had come to her, seeing Annis embracing that same possibility, instead of growing up beaten down, unloved, and feeling unworthy because she was only ‘the girl.’ To have that snatched away now would be too cruel.

  Willing the figure to be naught more than her imaginings, she closed her eyelids and squeezed them tight. “He will be gone when I open them,” she said lowly, almost a prayer to make it so. When she opened them, the dark figure remained.

  “Skena…” His hissed whisper sent a chill to undulate over her.

  This could not be! Noel assured her Angus was dead. Was there some way he escaped the madness at Dunbar? Mayhap they w
ere mistaken. He was not dead, but merely wounded, and it had taken him until now to make it back to Craigendan. Had not Noel’s injury taken so long to heal? Angus was older than him by ten years, thus he might mend even more slowly. The kenning swam through her, warning her, but she was determined to know the truth. She refused to have this shadow hanging over her life, her future.

  With misgivings, she started down the passageway with slow steps. She did not want to go, but was driven by the need to know if this was Angus, or if her mind conjured his shade out of guilt, simply because her life was moving on. As she neared, he vanished around the corner.

  As she reached the bend, she pulled up. The long corridor wound to another turn and ultimately reached a tunnel entrance, which opened upon the bailey behind the stables. Torches were not lit in the sconces, nor were there arrow loops to break the impenetrable darkness. She listened as the man’s footfalls carried him farther away. Skena knew every inch of Craigendan, could walk this twisting passage blindfolded, yet she wavered on following him.

  At the second bend, he spun on his heel and looked back. “Skena…hurry…come.”

  “Angus?” Skena’s voice echoed hollowly against the stone walls.

  “Hurry…”

  Putting her hand on the wall, she glanced to the torch behind her, wondering if she should go fetch it. Ahead, there were only the garderobe, a communal bathing area for the soldiery, a hidden outer door to the fortress, and another leading down into the bowels of Craigendan. Just as she decided to collect the torch, a faint light flared behind him as if a candle had been lit.

  Keeping her hand on the stone wall, she cautiously made her way down the narrow corridor, the pale yellow glow behind her growing fainter as she turned the corner. Ahead, candlelight flickered from inside the cleansing room. Once more, she hesitated. The sense that something was off about this whole situation increased with each heartbeat.

  “Hurry, Skena.” The ghostly call came from deep inside the large room.

  Frowning, she crossed the threshold and looked about, but failed to spot anyone. The candle and wooden holder were sitting on a table against the far wall. Two large wooden tubs, empty, were before the cold hearth, a long bench on either side. A large wooden privacy screen sat across the corner. There was only one place he could be—behind the screen. Moving to the table, she picked up the feeble candle by the finger loop, lifting it high.

  “Angus, are you here?” she called.

  As she headed around the heavy paneled screen, something dropped over her head—burlap—the dust so heavy she choked, gasping for air. The candle dropped from her fingers, as she struggled to get free of the heavy sack. Only it was pulled down, covering her arms. She could not strike out. Suddenly, she was swung hard, sending her crashing against the far wall.

  As blackness swirled through her mind, her last thought was that she should have heeded the kenning. “Too…late,” the words fell from her lips.

  Chapter Twenty

  Noel loathed to admit it, but Skena had been right—he should have stayed at Craigendan and in bed. His back burned in red hot agony. He remained seated upon Brishen instead of dismounting to investigate the small clearing, fearful of having a rough time getting back in the saddle if he did. The wound throbbed painfully, yet with an ache that bespoke of healing rather than of flesh pushing to putrefaction, which he had suffered for so long.

  Swinging his right leg over the pommel in front of him, Guillaume kicked out of his stirrup and then dropped to both feet from his charger. His steed and Brishen were brothers, nearly identical, pure white horses, presents from Julian five summers past. The lead rein in his hand, Guillaume carefully examined the small niche that nature had formed in the thick trees, looking for telltale signs of who had been living on Craigendan land. A crudely erected shelter, a lean-to made of evergreen limbs, had been nestled between the heavy boughs of two tall pine trees. Scratching through the deep snow, Noel’s friend exposed the remains of a fire that had been doused before it burned out.

  Lifting a half charred branch, he held it up for Noel’s inspection, then flashed a look of mislike at the discovery. “Hard to say how long, due to the covering of snow, howbeit to hazard a guess—this site was abandoned, but not by more than mere days. Mayhap the snow drove him to seek shelter elsewhere?”

  Noel gingerly turned in the saddle, searching for other signs that someone had used the tiny clearing for shelter, clues to why anyone would be out here in the dead of winter. Futile effort. The snow had thoroughly blanketed all but recent roe deer tracks. He grimaced from the pain and then asked, “If you were using this as a base, which path would you take from here?”

  Guillaume shot him a veiled glance. “You would head out on the trail we came in on.” He shrugged. “From there it branches in one of four directions—Gailleann Castle, out on a small isle in Loch Shane Mohr, Comyn land to the north, Glen Shane, or back to Craigendan.”

  “Who owns Gailleann Castle?” Noel inquired, as he watched Guillaume remount.

  “Another Ogilvie heiress, though not by name. Caitrin Bannatyne, Baroness Gailleann. The lady is betrothed to Kerian Mackenzie, second son of a powerful Mackenzie chief near Inverness. Folks in Glen Shane speak ’tis a love match since childhood. He fostered at Gailleann. Child love is vastly different than the love twixt a man and woman. Methinks such familiarity often spoils the passion. And in Mackenzie’s case, he seems a bit”—Guillaume shrugged, reaching for the correct word and clearly failing to find it. “Pale? The pair came before me to give oath, since the isle is part of Lochshane’s honours. I find little comfort in the knowledge he shall be the future baron.”

  “So he is your vassal?” Noel reined Brishen alongside so they could finish their discussion.

  “In a manner of speaking. The isle belongs to the Lady Caitrin. These Ogilvie heiresses hold lands and titles in their own rights, through the distaff blood of their clan. Until Edward’s crushing of the Scottish army last spring, these females controlled their own fiefs because of some ancient ceremony they call Rite of Line. They speak such women are descended from witches of the old royal line of the Picts. A strange people, titles, rule, lands, all passed through the mother’s blood, not the father’s. Thus he shall be my vassal, but only as long as he remains betrothed to the baroness. If he cries off the wedding—no loss for her in my humble opinion—then the man she marries would become the new baron in his stead. The isle is vital, since it watches the comings and goings of both the Comyns and Campbells. I would prefer someone of a less ‘pretty’ mien guarding the passes at our backs. And speaking of pretty men, did you see Redam or Dare whilst you were in Berwick?”

  Noel shrugged, thinking of this other Challon half brother. Darian Challon shared the same father as Julian, Simon, and Guillaume, but he had been born of a servant girl, instead of the high born lady who was Guillaume’s mother. “Darian was there, and what can one say, reckless as ever. He plays a dangerous game of tweaking Edward’s nose about sending Julian away. He might come to regret it if he missteps.”

  “And Redam? I fret over him. Always have.” Guillaume’s face reflected that dark concern.

  Redam Maignart, the seventh baron of Raoullin, was a soulless killer, a king’s assassin. “Aye, and well you should. He rides at Edward’s left hand,” Noel answered solemnly, not willing to say more.

  Guillaume flashed a grin. “Mayhap we should kidnap our foster brother and hand him over to some Ogilvie female. Might be what his spirit needs.”

  A horn sounded off in the distance, alerting them game was being herded, driven their way. They both drew their bows and notched arrows waiting as the crashing of a large animal sounded through the thick pines. Two large, red roe deer broke free of the trees, jumping high through the clearing. Arrows were loosed, hitting the animals in vital spots, but still they ran on. Spurring their steeds, they followed, keeping on the deer’s blood trail until the animals would finally drop.

  Guillaume laughed and then called, “Ah,
something besides wolf-meat stew for us this night, my Lord de Servian.”

  The jarring chase only increased Noel’s pain, but they chased the deer until one fell, then finally the other. When his back slammed into the cantle, as Brishen jumped a fallen log, Noel said through gritted teeth, “I should have listened to Skena.”

  Guillaume pulled alongside and grabbed Noel’s shoulder to steady him, as they reined the horses to halt. “Sorry for the manhandling, but Lady Skena would have my hide if you fall off your horse. We would never hear the end of it.”

  Noel pulled in a ragged breath. “We needs must get these beasts dressed before the meat goes off.”

  “My lord,” Emory called, cantering up from the opposite direction. “Riders come through the lower passes, heading toward Craigendan.”

  Guillaume’s face darkened as he dismounted quickly. “If we take time to gut the animals they will reach there before we can. Help me tie the roes to the backs of the horses. We will have to dress them at the dun.”

  “Did you see the pennon they were flying?” Noel asked of the young man.

  Emory shook his brown head. “Nay standard I could see. Safe wager would be Comyns. The Campbells do not venture from fireside when ’tis cold. Besides,” he looked from his liege and then back to Noel, “’Tis well known Duncan Comyn has fixed his eye on the Lady Skena.”

  Forgetting the dead animals, Noel set spurs to Brishen’s side, racing back to Craigendan.

  “Make way!” Guillaume called. The squires dropped the roe and jumped aside as Brishen leapt over the other fallen animal. “He is a man in love on a mission!”