One Snowy Knight

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Guillaume spoke from behind them. “She stays in my room.”

  Red shown on Rowanne’s cheeks as she whipped around. “I will do no such thing.”

  “You shall,” Guillaume countered with clear determination. “I shall sleep on a pallet on the floor if you do not trust me to—what is it you Scots call it—bundle? But you will stay in my room. There has been trouble here, and whilst methinks it shan’t extend to you, I want to know where you are at all times.”

  Rowanne’s amber brown eyes went to Noel, judging his reaction to the claim, then back to Skena. Skena nodded faintly. “Very well, Baron Lochshane, you may sleep on the floor.” With that, she lifted the hems of her mantle and kirtle and swept regally into the fortress.

  Guillaume arched an eyebrow at Noel in silent male communication, then said, “This should prove an interesting Yule.”

  The Great Hall rang with laughter and good cheer, mayhap for the first time in nearly a year. With the meat the men had added over the past several days and the wagons of much needed supplies, everyone had plenty to eat. To the delight of all, Galen spun a tale of olden days, a favorite, of the great warrior king, Fhitich, and his lady love, Anne, one of the Cait Sidhe, and how they fought the Norsemen together to save their people.

  Seated at the great table, Rowanne leaned forward to look past Skena and smile at Noel. “Have you not heard the lore, Sir Noel, of how the women of our line came from witches who had the ability to turn into catamounts?”

  “Damian spoke of it in passing when he was in Berwick last August,” Noel answered, making room for Annis to sit upon his knee. He handed her a slice of bread sweetened with honey and cinnamon. “More recently, Guillaume warned me of such after he came to stay. Methinks you ladies of Clan Ogilvie like to rattle men’s resolve with such stories.”

  Rowanne’s laughter rang out. “You will find out the truth one day, Lord de Servian.”

  Skena watched her daughter blooming under Noel’s gentle attention. In the crook of her elbow was a puppet, fashioned to look like a noble lady. Noel had given it to Annis just a short time ago for her Yule present. Behind them, Andrew dashed hither and yond, fighting a mock battle with the knight puppet that was now his.

  “They dearly love those hand puppets. Where did you ever find such wondrous gifts?” Skena touched his arm, needing to feel his warmth.

  He shrugged as if it were a minor matter. “I bought them off a puppeteer in Berwick right before I left. I had a feeling they might please.”

  Neither child had ever had such a beautiful present. It was merely another measure of the kindness and caring within this special man. Annis wiggled up to kiss Noel’s cheek, leaving bread crumbs sticking to it. Andrew and his knight finally stopped slaying dragons and came to get a piece of the bread. Noel shifted Annis to his other leg, so Andrew had space to sit on a leg as well. Annis let her puppet kiss Noel, and then she fed him a part of her second piece of bread.

  Rowanne watched the goings on of both children, clamoring for attention from Noel, and each receiving their share. “He is winning the hearts of the twins, especially Annis.”

  “Aye, already she has stepped out of the shadows with his patience.” Skena could barely take her eyes away from Noel.

  Rowanne reached out and squeezed Skena’s hand. “Judging from that look in your eyes, I would say the Lord de Servian has captured your heart as well.”

  A blush flooding her cheeks, Skena dropped her hand from where she was touching Noel’s upper arm. Finding no words, she merely looked down at her trencher and nodded.

  “Guillaume said you plan to wed with Sir Noel in three days’ time, without waiting for banns to be cried. Malcolm is down with the ague, or he would have made the journey from Lochshane with me. I did not ken what he meant when he passed me a message for you. Now it makes sense. He said to tell you that he was sorry to miss this special time with you, to speak your words before all, but he expects you and your English dragon at the church to be given Holy Communion when the snow melts.” Rowanne offered a reassuring smile. “Methinks our dear uncle’s Ogilvie blood has been whispering to him.”

  Skena tired as the celebrating went on and on. Since Yule was the longest night of the year, the custom was to keep the fire burning bright in the Great Hall through the hours of darkness, to hold at bay the night and light the way for the renewing sun’s return. Galen shared more legends of the Highlands, spoke of the meaning of Yule and the great battle between light and dark.

  As she watched the children holding their precious puppets, she regretted she had no gift for Noel. Her mind brightening with a notion, she hit upon a small one—a gift of peace and rebuilding between them. Gathering her sewing basket, she took a small piece of sun-bleached baize and began sewing. In each corner she stitched a runic symbol and in the center fashioned an empty knot circle.

  Noel finally took his eyes off Rowanne, who was now telling a story of the Selkies. Noticing Skena sewing, he reached over and touched his fingertip to the designs on the cloth. “Making a handkerchief?”

  “Nay, something different. ’Tis your Yule present. I am sorry, ’tis all I have to offer.” Skena gave him a shy shrug. “I sew with a finer stitch, but such attention to detail is not required for this. ’Tis a Yule Cloth.”

  “I have never heard of such. What do you do with a Yule Cloth?” His hand took her right wrist and gave it a small squeeze.

  “Each corner has a symbol—a rune. This one is Wyrd—Fate. This corner has Algiz—the defender. The third one I selected is Wunjo for bringer of joy, and lastly, Inguz—beginnings,” she explained. “Now you must tell me one word that shall give you what you wish for the most.”

  Noel stared at her for the longest time, as all around them receded to shadows. Then he spoke, “Skena.”

  She offered him a mysterious smile and then began sewing. But not her name. The needle quickly worked through the cloth to form the letters l-o-v-e. Before he could see what she had done, she took his hand.

  “Come. I will show you what to do with the Yule Cloth.” At one of the Great Hall posts, she paused. “Pick three leaves from the holly branch—careful, as they are prickly—and three berries.”

  Noel did as she instructed. Carrying the items, he followed her to the fireplace where she opened the cloth, showing the word in the middle of the circle.

  “I said Skena was my wish.” The pale eyes moved over her, touching her with a power much like the kenning.

  She gave a brief nod. “Oh, aye. But this is a spell for us both. You are Algiz the protector. Fate—Wyrd—sent you to me. Together we have a joyful beginning that brings love. That is my gift to you, Noel—this Yuletide spell.”

  Forming her hand to make a cup with the word love against her palm, she took the leaves and berries from him and placed them on the cloth, then folded the corners over each other. Stepping to the fire, she started to toss it onto the blaze, but Noel caught her hand. The silver eyes locked with hers, stripping away any protection and touching her soul. Together, they tossed the cloth into the flames.

  “By the fire burning bright, three upon three, let it be,” she whispered.

  Noel’s grip on her wrist tightened as he slowly pulled her to him. “I once asked if your name Skena had a meaning. You answered not that you ken. But it does. It means love.”

  He brushed his lips over hers lightly, igniting the ravenous hunger, the need for him. His hands cradled her back as he deepened the kiss, speaking his emotions through this silent bond. Speaking his love while the Yule Cloth burned to cinders, setting the spell.

  Finally recalling they stood before the whole of Craigendan, she broke the kiss and stepped back. Though her cheeks burned, she was pleased by the gift she had created for Noel, knew it was the perfect gesture to heal the breach between them. Whether it was the Yule spell working, or simply her love for Noel, joy filled her heart to overflowing.

  Seeing Galen bring in the wooden box of apples, she went to pass them out. They were small
and fewer in number this year. Everyone would have to share. As she reached for the first one, she accidentally spotted Dorcas in the kitchen doorway. Though she was partially in shadows, Skena saw enough of her sister’s face. The look of hatred and envy sent a chill up her spine.

  Passing Noel an apple, she said, “If a woman peels one, careful to remove the skin whole, she can toss it over her right shoulder, quickly look back, and is supposed to glimpse the man who will be her husband. The crop was so small we will have to share. Few apples, fewer husbands.” She tried to make light of the situation. “Another way apples can be used for divination is to twist the stem. You say the names of eligible men and whichever name is spoken when the stem breaks is the one you will wed. Of course…”

  Her words died as she saw Dorcas again, speaking to Andrew. He proudly held up his puppet to show her, but then, Dorcas leaned down to whisper something to the little boy. Foreboding crawled up her spine as she watched the two, alarm turning to panic as she realized what her sister was doing.

  She ran toward her son, to snatch him away, but it was too late. She did not know where Dorcas had learnt the details of Angus’s death, but the bitch knew! The truth was there when Dorcas raised up, a smile on her lips and the light of triumph in her eyes. Blindly, Skena pushed through the crowd, crashing into bodies, barely seeing who they were. One was Guillaume. She heard him asking if something was wrong. She mumbled a vague reply and shoved by him.

  By the time she reached Andrew, Dorcas was gone. Her son stood pale and shaking, staring down at the puppet held limply in his hands. Her heart broke as she saw the slumped shoulders. Skena reached for him, only he jerked away. He looked up at her with wide, haunted eyes. Then his head jerked to Noel, coming up behind her. The blood seemed to drain from his face as he turned and fled.

  “Andrew!” she called, but he did not stop.

  Noel caught her arm as she started after her son. “She told him?”

  Skena nodded, tears burning her eyes.

  Noel wanted to strangle Dorcas for her evil deed, but his first concern was Skena’s son. “Let me go after him.” Noel held her arm firmly, fearing she was not really hearing him. “Trust me to handle the boy, Skena.”

  She stared up at him, trying to focus through the tears, then her head finally bobbed consent. Noel handed her to Guillaume and asked that he keep a close watch on her, and then went after Andrew.

  The boy was not hard to find. The fortress door had been left open a crack, where the child failed to push it closed securely. From there, it was easy to follow the tracks in the freshly fallen snow. Andrew had gone to the stable. His small footprints stopped there.

  Not wanting to set Andrew to running again, he moved into the darkened stable in silent steps. Leaving the door open to increase the light within, he took time to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the enclosed barn. Slowly, he began to see the shapes of the stalls and horses inside them. Brishen was in the largest one at the end, the white of his horse standing out clearly.

  Appearing so much the little man, Andrew stood before the stall, looking down at the puppet still in his hands. His chin quivered. Life had cruelly intruded on his happy world, but then it always had a way of shattering childhood innocence. It had for Noel. Andrew was two years older than Noel had been when he lost both parents and learnt just how brutal the world could be.

  Andrew had lost only one and had made a reasonable adjustment to that change. In time, he would accept Noel in the place of a father, if he handled this right. If not, he could harden the child against him forevermore. Knowing how tender a child’s emotions were, how deeply a child could be wounded, he had hoped to put off telling Annis and Andrew about Angus until they were older. His hand had been forced by that vicious bitch Dorcas. Oh, Noel would deal with her shortly. For now, he had to try to salvage his honor before Andrew’s eyes.

  The little boy was pretending to be strong, but faint trembles revealed his inner pain. Noel’s heart ached for Andrew; he understood life could be scary when you felt so alone. Once upon a time, Michael Challon had come and saved him from the unending nightmare, had given him a new father and brothers to fill his empty world. Now it was his turn to offer the hand of solace to Skena’s son.

  “When I was five years old my father died.” Noel broke the silence. At the sound of his voice Andrew jumped slightly, but he feigned not to have heard, staring ahead at the horse in the stall. “He died in a tournament. A bizarre accident. One day he was there. The next he was buried.” His hand itched to reach out and squeeze the child’s shoulder, yet he feared being rebuffed. “I was confused, scared. I did not know what would happen to Mother and me. Then I learned those fears were only the start. My mother howled in grief and never seemed to stop. You see, she loved my father very much. My heart hurt, as I could do naught to stop her from crying.”

  Andrew’s head slowly lifted. “She cried for him?”

  Noel’s heart ached for the small boy, truly knowing his pain. “Then one night the crying stopped. I awoke and wondered why there was silence. She was so beautiful with her dark hair and big blue eyes, like some faery princess. I often would peek behind her back to see if gossamer wings were folded there. Methinks the silence terrified me more than the endless tears. I went to her room, hoping to find her there, imagined she would pull me into the big bed, cuddle and kiss me, and tell me everything would be fine soon. She was not there.”

  “Where was she?” Andrew voice quavered as he sniffed tears. Tears for himself. Likely, tears for Noel.

  “The servants carried her back into the castle. She had thrown herself into the lake. She did not want to live without my father.”

  Teardrops spilled down the child’s cheeks. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his sark. Andrew looked up at him, eyes troubled. Even in the shadows, those eyes were so like Skena’s. “She drowned? You lost your mother and father? But who took care of you?”

  “A brave and valiant knight came, a warrior true, named Michael Challon. He told me that I did not have to worry. I would go live with him and be safe.”

  “And were you…safe?”

  Noel nodded. “Yes, I had a wonderful home, had brothers. I never had any before, so it was a happy time to have others my age around. We grew up together, and I was loved and protected. Earl Michael was true to his word—I was safe.”

  Andrew swallowed hard. “Why did you k…kill my father?” Noel turned his back to the child and lifted his sark. Shifting the bandage up, he exposed his still raw wound. “Because he tried to kill me.” Putting the shirt down, he turned to face Andrew again. “War is hard to understand. Men do very ugly things to each other. Most times they do not even know each other—as it was with your father and me. Simple truth—we were warriors and met on a field of war. Nothing more, nothing less. Either I killed your father or he killed me. That is how a battle is. Why we spend years training to fight. To save our lives, the lives of those we love. It’s a hard lesson, but men learn it. ’Tis the way of things. There is no changing it.”

  Looking down at the puppet, Andrew’s head gave a small nod of understanding.

  “Many years ago, Michael Challon said he would be my new father, that I had a home with him and his family. I loved him for that. Loved my new brothers. I will always honor my father, but I made room for Michael Challon. He gave me so much. I hope I can make the same offer to you and Annis—to keep you safe. I will protect you with my life. Will you permit me to do that?”

  Andrew raised his head again, the brown eyes staring at him with wisdom beyond his years. Skena’s wisdom. “My mama never cried because my father was…dead. Methinks sometimes he made her sad. Annis never cried for him either.”

  Noel squatted before the solemn child. “Women are tender beings. They need men to protect them. Will you allow me to help you do that?”

  Brishen moved to the opening to stick his head out. Andrew avoided answering by patting the horse’s nose. Just when Noel thought the boy was not going t
o give him a response, he asked, “Mayhap…sometime I could ride Brishen again? I rode him the night we found you covered with snow.”

  The tightness in his heart easing, Noel smiled in relief. “I think Brishen would like that. Come spring I will find a good mare and breed her with Brishen. The colt can be yours. You two could grow up together.”

  Andrew nodded. “I would like that.” He was trying to hold emotions in, but his chest heaved with a sob.

  Noel finally allowed himself to touch Andrew’s shoulder, gave him a small squeeze for reassurance. It seemed the final straw to the boy’s defenses. Throwing his arms around Noel, Andrew held on and sobbed. Noel knelt and took the child in his arms and allowed him to cry. In an odd way, Andrew shed tears of grief, but they were also tears Noel had never permitted himself to cry all those years ago.

  “Noel, might I ask something?” he asked, choking back a sob.

  “You may ask whatever you want,” Noel agreed.

  Andrew’s face was sad. “Your wound…’Tis in the back.” Too smart by half, the child was already making the leap from two men fighting to one almost dying from a wound in the back.

  “Men do not always face each other continuously when fighting. I turned, and he caught me in the back because he had already swung.” Noel did not precisely lie. It was hard enough for the child to lose a father, the difficulty compounded by having to accept Noel in Fadden’s place. Telling him the full truth would serve naught at this point. He could leave Andrew’s childhood memory of his father unblemished.

  Andrew’s head bobbed twice, but he avoided looking at Noel, as if he did not fully believe him. Skena’s son was bright, his incisive mind so like his mother’s.

  “Come,” Noel said, rising. “Your lady mother will be fretting about you.” Putting a hand behind Andrew’s shoulders, he gently steered him from the stables.