Chapter Eleven
When the winter winds whispers and moans,
wolves will come scratching at the door...
—Iain Mackenzie Montgomerie
“Still, it was a fair fight. I know you too well. You are as a brother to me, a most honorable man, and not the one to attack a man from behind. Same cannot be said about the former baron, eh? Plus, you were fighting wounded. He had the advantage,” Guillaume pointed out.
Noel gave a weak nod, shifting in the bed to be more comfortable. “Howbeit, will that matter once they learn? I will be the murderer of her husband, the children’s father, in their eyes.”
“Stop such lies. You murdered no one. The baron made his own choices—cork-brained though they were. He was too pigheaded to accept losing. I have seen this before. They wouldst rather die than live in defeat. He knew if he attacked you, you wouldst kill him. If he fell you before he was stopped, he knew your men would cut him to pieces. One might view Fadden chose to take his own life, too cowardly and wanted it done by another’s hand,” Guillaume opined.
“Mayhap.” Noel knew that no matter if it had been the baron’s choice, the end results would be his to bear.
“Well, they say ’tis the season of miracles. The light is the shortest. End of one turn of the wheel, start of a new. Mayhap blessings of Yuletide shall grant you a fresh beginning here.” Guillaume exhaled. “We shall get you healed for the present. Then, I fear there are pressing issues that need addressing at Craigendan.”
“Issues?” Noel echoed.
Guillaume rose and went to the fireplace to toss on a couple of blocks of peat. Using the poker, he jabbed at the half-burnt ones to stir the flames. “’Tis most odd, Noel. Upon our arrival, we were not challenged. I called out at the gate, demanding entrance in the name of Challon, and we were permitted entrance. No men came close to confront us.”
“You rode under the standard of the Black Dragon. That tends to strike fear into the hearts of all men, not just Scots. They know Julian is their overlord.”
Guillaume merely lifted his brow and shrugged. “Methinks very soon you needs must get out of that bed, assume the title of baron, and do a head count of your men.”
“What are you saying?” Noel reached for one of the covers and wrapped it around his shoulders, feeling a chill coming upon him.
“Cypher this. How many men of Craigendan did you take prisoner at Dunbar?”
Noel thought back on that dreadful day. So many dead or dying. One of the images he wished he could exorcize from his memory. The ugliness seemed forevermore burned into his soul. “Two score, mayhap a few over. Why?”
“And what happened to them?”
“Edward had them sent to Edinburgh Castle and then hanged them as traitors. Why should their fate be of question to you?” Noel shivered, fighting to keep his mind fixed on Guillaume’s words.
“Methinks the men on your wall are likely young boys, naught more. Their size seems more like pages and squires than men-at-arms. You need to take complete stock of your new holding. If you require soldiery, we can pull some from Lochshane and Glenrogha until spring. Once we have a tally of Craigendan, we can refit to make your holding secure. The Comyns and Campbells both craved to get their hands on this place. Julian is keeping close eye on Duncan Comyn. His brother Phelan tried to kill all in the Challon party when they returned from Berwick.”
“Rumors reached Berwick of the attack and that Phelan Comyn was left dead in the aftermath. Duncan had to do some tall talking and groveling at Edward’s boot to keep control of the Clan’s holdings in Dunkeld. What really happened?”
“Phelan and his men ambushed the party as they returned from Parliament. Damian took arrows in the battle.”
Noel questioned, “Is he all right now?”
“Oh, aye, doing well. He is up and about, slowly working to regain his strength, though he has Aithinne convinced he is at death’s door. I think he likes her caring for him. He shall be a father in a couple of months. So will Challon. Hard to imagine, eh?” A grin spread over Guillaume’s face.
“Methinks they are more than ready for a settled home, a family.” Noel told him. Then he added the wistful afterthought, “So am I.”
“Which brings me back to my original question—which you sidestepped: what are your plans for Craigendan’s widow and her children?”
“Once, long ago, Fate robbed me of my birthright,” Noel admitted, feeling the pain of a loss, which had never truly left him.
Guillaume leaned back in the chair. “It also gave you, Julian, Destain, Damian, Dare, Redam and me for brothers, though.”
“True, and not for one day did I draw breath and not give thanks for that blessing.” Noel paused, fighting back old emotions. Oddly, he had gone through much of his life without tasting the child’s sorrow, that overwhelming sense of losing everything. Being here in Craigendan seemed to have let loose the old demons. “Fate took a family from me. Mayhap it now returns what it stole. Skena is a fighter.” He did not add the words unlike my mother. “She cares about her children, about the people of this keep. I hope…given time, that she will come to accept the schemes of Lady Destiny.”
“Mayhap it was not that lady who weaves your life, but rather The Cailleach,” Guillaume suggested. “Though I place little faith in the Highland superstitions, it does seem a hand used the storm to guide you to the gates of Craigendan.”
♦◊♦
Skena tried to keep her emotions under control as she shepherded the children down to the Great Hall. With each step on the winding staircase, it became harder to keep everything reined in. Anger, resentment and disappointment bubbled in her to the point it was hard to think. Of course, she had no right to feel let down. This knight was naught to her. A Norman stranger that her children had come upon in the snow. He owed her naught. She would have tended any soul lost in a storm.
A stranger she had lain next to in bed, touched and desired.
Only now, she stopped the starry-eyed dreaming. He was the new lord of Craigendan. By the Auld Ones, where did that leave her? What would happen to her children? Panic surged white hot in the pit of her belly.
Trying not to give in to dread, she gently pushed the children through the bustle of activities in the Great Hall. Some workers were starting to decorate for Yule, coming in the passing of a few days. Somehow, that was jarring in the light that this might possibly be the last holiday she would witness as lady of the keep.
Her steps faltered as she spotted three of Challon’s men, aiding young women in tying the boughs of holly and evergreens to the columns of the Hall. Mayhap she should not resent this. There was no avoiding the lasses of Craigendan would need to take husbands soon. And she certainly could not cast the first stone that their gazes had fallen upon Englishmen. Had she not desired de Servian?
“’Twas before I kenned he be the new baron,” she muttered, to steel her determination.
Seeing Jenna, she made a beeline to her. “Take the children to Nessa. Ask her to see they stay to their rooms for now.”
Jenna frowned, her eyes worried. “Skena, has something happened?”
“Please. Just do as I ask?” Skena snapped, instantly regretting her harsh tone. “Forgive me, dear friend. I drown in troubles.”
Jenna nodded. “I see that. I take the lambs to Nessa. Spare no fret o’er them.”
“Skena!” Owen rushed into the Hall, and then pulled up seeing Challon’s men all about. He hesitated, swallowed hard, but then slowly came forward to her. “Skena, you needs must come outside. Hurry.” His voice was low, hushed.
Skena trembled as she fought to contain emotions threatening to swamp her. The whole bloody summer she had worked so hard. And for what? For some English lord to come in and assume control of her keep? Glancing down at her shaking hands, she nearly grimaced at the rough skin. They appeared more the hands of a serf than a lady. She curled her fingers into fists to keep from rattling apart.
“Skena, you be pale.” Owen said, eyes wide and worried. “Are you all right?”
She gave a short laugh of self-derision. “I could no’ possibly be better. Come, let me handle whatever needs sorting out so I may find a nice, dark corner where I can collapse.”
Owen looked afraid. “You needs must rest more. You look tired.”
“Tired?” She nodded. “Oh, aye. Tired of life, my young friend. Tired of men thinking they rule the world without even a by your leave. Tired of hoping...” She swallowed back the futile words. “Ne’er mind my blethering.”
Hurrying to the stillroom, Skena snatched up her work mantle, and then left the Hall before anyone could stop her. She was at the end of her tether and was unsure she could handle much more without collapsing into a heap and crying to sleep. Exhaustion was bone deep due to nursing de Servian for three days and nights. Now, to learn this man she had cared for would rob her of Craigendan, steal her children’s heritage, hurt and betrayal was beyond what she could deal with.
She followed Owen through the inner ward and then into the outer bailey. As she spied the stables ahead, she sensed where he was heading. To the postern gate. She glanced around, searching for the guard set on the back entrance.
“Where be the sentry stationed on the gate?” Skena asked in a cross tone, not intended for the lad, but the woman who had abandoned her duty.
He paused before the metal plated door and shrugged. “Dorcas.”
The name was explanation enough. Skena’s mouth set in a frown. Why had she not hazarded a guess? The bane of Skena’s life—Dorcas was always at the heart of any problem in Craigendan. After Dorcas’s husband died of a wasting sickness, nearly six years ago, Skena had been forced to take her in. There had been no turning her back on kin, no matter how she would have liked to. At this late day, she was not sure if she regretted that rainy morn when Dorcas came to Craigendan, or had grown to accept her presence as a peculiar blessing. Within a fortnight of her coming, Dorcas had lured Angus into her bed. Skena misliked how Dorcas had single-mindedly set out to achieve that aim. As time passed, she had been silently relieved that Angus spent his nights elsewhere. Howbeit, it rankled he had chosen Dorcas for a leman. Worse, it undermined Skena’s position within the keep. Dorcas felt she did not have to take orders from Skena, that her position in Angus’s life furnished her privileges the other women of the dun were not afforded. Her insolence only grew with each passing year.
She should have found some villein from Clan Campbell or Clan Comyn to take Dorcas to wife by now and be shed of her. One less headache she had to deal with. That thought brought a smile to her lips. Oh, aye, a husband from either would do well to unload Dorcas upon, then the aggravating woman could cause them mischief and leave Skena in peace. Would serve the troublemaker well if Skena wed her to a swine herder, see how the wench with airs above her station would fare then. She had never challenged the situation whilst Angus had been alive, and at times, secretly was grateful that his interests were fixed elsewhere. In a strange way, she grudgingly felt Dorcas had earned her elevated status. Well, Angus was long gone. The protection he gave Dorcas’s mischief-making ways had worn thin.
“Winds of change blow around us all, Dorcas. It may be the last thing I do as the lady of Craigendan, but by damn, I shall find you a fitting husband. You can bloody well wager your fancy silver buckle on that.” Skena threatened under her breath, with a dram of glee.
Owen’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Beg pardon, Skena. After that sickness last month made my ears swell, I do no’ hear so good. Muriel spake it takes awhile for them to get better. You talking to me, or muttering to yourself again?”
“Naught to concern yourself about, my fine lad. I just mutter to myself. We needs must build a narrow run—high enough so wolves canno’ jump over it, and with a blind to protect me. We will let in one or two at a time. Then, I can pick them off, whittle the pack down. It needs to be out to about here.” She drew a line in the snow with the heel of her boot. “Long, but tight, so they canno’ turn about.” As she rounded on the boy’s left, she spotted what had drawn his concern.
“See,” he pointed, “they make a big hole at the bottom corner, enough for a snout to push under. I saw one shoving his muzzle under the edge. I clotted him with a staff, but that will no’ slow him for long. Much more, Skena, and they will get in.”
“Oh, aye, this night, if they are no’ stopped.” She looked around for something to prevent them from burrowing under the gate. “Owen, run to the armory. Fetch five old swords, a hammer, two pikes, and a length of rope.”
“Swords? Whatever for?” He looked totally confused.
“Och, hie, Owen. Time be wasting.” She gave the lad a push to speed his steps.
Instead of waiting for his return, Skena went to the stairs, which led up to the boulevard. There, her ladies patrolled. She grimaced at the weakness of the ruse. They looked precisely what they were―women barded in armor to appear as men. There would be little fooling the Lord Lochshane if he caught a good sight of them. Of course, mayhap it was no longer her problem, but one that could be dumped into de Servian’s lap.
“Baron Craigendan, you have damn few supplies, too many mouths to feed, and nearly all belong to females. How do you like those apples, Baron?” she grumbled. Coming upon a woman on patrol, she asked, “Where be Dorcas? She was set to watch the postern gate.”
Margaret’s owlish brown eyes blinked from behind the too-large helmet. Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug, a typical reaction when one was faced with explaining Dorcas. “She disappeared after the English warriors came. She...she...spake you be inside with an Englishman keepin’ you warm...” She lowered her lashes. “Sorry, Skena. Her words no’ mine. You ken the sloven.”
“Och, only too well. Go back to patrolling. Keep watch along the wall. The wolves be too bold by half. Tell the ladies to enter through the kitchen tunnel, and change in either the bypass or the cleansing room. Do no’ enter the keep direct, or the English might spot you for what you are.”
“Aye, Skena.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
Snowflakes hit Skena’s face as she stared through the crenellation at the far woods, which ran toward the loch. The wolves would be in their den sleeping now, soon they would come scratching at the gate. She had to be ready to act, but feared the pen could not be built by nightfall. Risking peril, she would have to hold them at bay one more day.
“Skena!” Galen hurried across the ward in an uneven pace, struggling not to slip in the snow. Owen and Kenneth trailed behind him with their arms full of the items Skena had called for. “You scatty female! You plan on going to war with the English?”
Skena descended the staircase and headed back to the gate. “Going to war? Oh, aye—in a manner of speaking.” Grabbing one of the swords stacked crosswise in Kenneth’s arms, she drove it into the frozen ground to where the blade covered the small opening the wolves had dug in the snow. It only went in so far, as she suspected it would do, so she took the hammer and pounded it in deeper.
“Smart thinking, lass. Here let me.” Galen grabbed a sword and planted it less than a hand’s breadth from the first one.
They worked until all five were stuck halfway in the soil against the door. It stopped the pack from digging under, or the gate from being pushed open. When that was done, she poked one of the pikes through the metal holder of the crossbar, and drove it in at an angle, slanting across the swords. Galen saw what she was doing and speared the second pike in from the other side so they formed an X. To give it all strength, she wove the rope through the pikes and broadswords.
“Well done, lass. Now, no worries the varmints will get in this eve.”
Skena nodded, pleased with her handiwork. “For this night. Soon they will give up and seek another weak spot. Each day that passes will only see the threat growing worse. We needs must take other measures on the morrow.”
“They need hunting down, true.” Galen regarded her solemnly. “Mayhap, the lord of Challon and his...” His words trailed off under her scorching glare.
Skena reined in her spiraling temper, not ready to tell Galen that Noel de Servian was the new lord here. Craigendan was still hers. The instant the tides were spoken, she would cease to be the lady.
That was something she was unprepared to face just yet.
She stared at the makeshift barrier set to thwart the wolves from getting in. “Too bad I did no’ try the same tactic with bloody English dragons.”