Chapter Twelve
True bravery comes from the hearts of cowards.
—John Francis Ogilvie
“Lady Skena.” The deep voice of Guillaume Challon spoke from behind her, startling her. How could a warrior so tall move in complete silence?
Taking off her mantle, Skena jumped. The man was daunting. Word had reached Craigendan that his brother, the earl, was even more unapproachable. In light of that, she should be happy she now dealt with him instead of the Black Dragon.
“Aye, my lord?” she asked, barely keeping the sour tone from her words.
His brow frowned, but the corner of his mouth betrayed his umbrage. “Do you have a healer within the curtain?”
“Our healer died several seasons past. We depend upon Auld Bessa to help with miseries here. Of course, you know her to be the healer for Glenrogha. With the snows so deep, there be no safe way to fetch her. She be too old to travel in this frigid cold. Fortunately, she raised me with her wisdom. Muriel also be fairly adept in healing. Methinks you will find no fault in how I cared for the new baron.” She truly tried to keep back the sharp edge of her tongue, but failed.
His brows lifted, but he said naught in reproof. “’Tis not my concern. I am sure you did everything possible to aid Noel to shake off the exposure to the storm. Since I hold this man dear as a brother, I offer thanks for your vigilant tending. My worry now is his old wound. I examined it. I do not like the look. The poison festers and will pollute his blood. We needs must draw the corruption to the surface, lance, and cauterize it before that dire fate takes him over. We dare not delay, but must do it this very night.”
Skena nodded, feeling contrite. “Very well. I shall prepare poultices and tansies. In the meantime, you should eat and take rest. You had a hard journey. I do no’ need another sick dragon to care for.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Lady Skena.” He gave her a bemused smile.
Feeling tired, Skena motioned for Muriel to see to the baron’s needs, and then left the room. At the archway, she glanced back at Guillaume Challon. He was a striking man, clearly an imposing warrior. She wondered how her cousin, Rowanne, viewed this knight who would be her lord husband come spring. Gossip came that Tamlyn was pleased with Julian Challon, and already she bred with his babe. Only, Skena fretted about Rowanne. Her cousin’s first marriage had gone sour. Did she view the changes in her life with anticipation and hope, or did dread fill her heart?
Barely aware of what she was doing, she headed down the long hall, winding past the kitchen. Her steps on the stone floor faintly echoed against the walls. At the door to the stillroom, she lifted the ring that dangled from her belt. Her hand shook as she inserted the key into the lock. She frowned at it, not liking her weakness, and wished she was stronger.
“If wishes were faery lights we wouldst need no tapers,” she grumbled. From the box by the door, she picked up a precious candlestick and touched the wick to the hall torch. “Wishing never helped aught in my whole bloody life. I see no reason to keep wasting my breath. I must be a simpleton.” Skena recognized her words were not about candles, but de Servian. “Silly mooncalf girl. Time to put aside naïve dreams.”
Smoke from tallow cups fouled herbs, thus Skena was forced to use beeswax candles in the stillroom. She was so careful to ration their use. Burdened with men’s chores, her workers had little time to replenish supplies before cold weather had hit. Tilting the candle, she allowed three drops to hit the holder, and then jammed the stick’s base into the melted wax. The beeswax contained ground bits of cedar wood shavings; the cleansing scent with its magical properties wafted through the room.
Skena looked at the long rows of wooden boxes and vessels stored on the shelves, while sprays, garlands and posies hung from the rafters to dry. An island of quiet away from the chaos of the keep’s everyday life. The enclosed room, as a rule, offered a treasured respite. She loved the solace found here, relished the heady perfumes of plants and worts, their fragrant sensuality cosseting her mind and opening her senses. This time those soothing scents brought no tranquility. Badly needing that gentle renewal of her spirit, she tried to reach out with the Kenning and touch the room’s fey enchantment that had always before calmed her soul.
She failed. Too much was pressing inward on her mind and she could not banish the mounting worries.
“I ken the right worts to rid the dun of fleas, but I neglected to learn the charm to cure a dragon infestation.” Walking to the table, she told herself everything would be all right. “It has to be,” she whispered in the stillness. No reply came from the shadows. “Nor did I expect one. The Auld Ones have better things to do than fash over the likes of me. ’Tis up to me to find my path in this life―and without the aid of wishes. As ’tis always been. I shall survive. I always do.”
And for a moment, she almost believed that. Then, fierce emotions curled through her insides like a writhing snake. Flinging herself onto the table, she broke down, crying for the first time since this nightmare year had started. Tears were useless. They changed naught, no more than wishing and hoping did. Only, she was so weary. Not eating enough, rationing food they would need for the coming months, and trying to store enough of what they could before snowfall, she was worn down by all the burdens of seeing the fortress prepared for this promised long winter.
As the drought had scorched the land, crops shriveled. Water dried up in the burn. Come harvest, they had not reaped enough to meet the tithe to their overlord, let alone sustain the people of Craigendan through the approaching months. Thus far, the Black Dragon had not demanded they send forth their portion. She kept holding onto it, hoping against hope, that he might forget, and they could have that, as well. Most pressing was dread over what would come down upon their heads, due to Angus’s rebellion against the English king. The specter had haunted her every step. As the daylight grew shorter, there had been no time to cut enough peat to fill the sheds for next season. Apples were smaller, scarcely half the numbers of their usual barrels. Sleepless nights followed. She rarely drew a breath without scores of misgivings plaguing her.
Now, those fears were becoming reality. There was a new lord of Craigendan. An English lord. This man would want a wife and heirs. What would happen to her and the children? Oh, she had no doubt Tamlyn or Aithinne would take her in and give them a home. Only, Craigendan was the birthright of Andrew and Annis. Her son should grow up to one day be lord here, and Annis a lady, instead of some poor relation.
Everything seemed to be closing in. Bubbling up inside her, the panic shredded her fragile resolve. Tears came and would not stop. She did not even try to stem their flow.
Worse, and she was loath to admit, hurt also came from Noel de Servian. He was sent here by his king. None of this was his doing. He was merely an instrument of his ruler’s whims. Yet, that would not stop him from taking control of Craigendan. How silly, her foolish heart had looked at the handsome man and coveted him, and in spite of knowing better, even had idiotically started spinning dreams.
“Dreams have no value. Same as wishes,” she choked the words out.
The door pushed open, causing her to suck in her sobs. She swiped the tears away with the backs of her hands. Pretending to be working, she snatched open lids on boxes of dried herbs.
Muriel shuffled in, closing the door behind her. “What has you taking on so, lass?”
“I am setting to make poultices with ground calendula, Scots elm, prunella, and St. John’s Wort. I will mix that with myrrh tincture. The Baron Lochshane says we needs must draw the poison to the surface on Lord de Servian without delay.” As the elderly woman shambled near, Skena turned her head away in a ruse of reaching for the mortar and pestle. She dare not meet Muriel’s all-seeing eyes.
“Stop hidin’ your face, Skena MacIain. Too well I ken you for you to pull wool over these old eyes.” With a mother’s loving touch, she pushed one side of Skena’s hair behind her shoulder. “This man of Challon upset you in coming. You went upstairs with one expression. Then, came down looking as if your whole life had been destroyed. What happened in those few breaths to set your spirit on this dark path?”
Skena pressed her palms to the table, leaning on it for support. The enormity of the situation slammed into her again, filling her with despair. “We wait no longer for the English king to send a new lord for Craigendan.”
“I thought the Black Dragon gave Sir Guillaume Lochshane, and that he wouldst wed with our Rowanne come Beltaine?” Muriel asked.
“’Tis no’ Guillaume Challon. The new lord of Craigendan be Noel de Servian.” Skena fought gritting her teeth over the prospect, almost feeling betrayal.
Muriel’s spine straightened at the tides. “So, that was his purpose for being out in the storm. Och, Skena, has the man spake aught about his plans? What about you and the children? We needed a new lord, aye. I warned you. We could not go on as we have. You kenned that, lass. This knight will bring needed men―”
“Englishmen, mayhap galloglasses—paid mercenaries,” Skena sneered.
Muriel nodded. “Oh, aye. Englishmen. But men still, Skena. Wouldst 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. Specters of war and famine stalk this land. Make pax with de Servian. Seek out an advantage, thus ensuring our survival.”
“Pax? Pray tell how? I have naught to bargain with, Muriel. He will claim all—my heritage, that of my children. The one 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. A good man, most say, but he were none too smart. Poor man, he ne’er kenned what to make of you. Too stupid to see 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. All that be the past. You needs must turn your eyes to the future. Your marriage to him gave you two perfect children you love. More so, it brought you to this point in time. What has gone before molds us, sees us who we are. You be made stronger because of your past, stronger than e’en you suspect.”
“Strong? I stand here rattling to pieces and crying like a bairn,” she choked on her scoff.
“Hush this fashing. You be weary. You stayed up nursing Lord de Servian, and no’ been eatin’ again. Stop that. ’Tis important to all here that you keep your wits about you. Now more than e’er. You must deal with this new lord―”
“You keep saying that. But how? There be 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, bless them, they wouldst take you in without hesitation. Even so, I doubt that shall come to pass.” Muriel poked her gnarled finger at Skena’s forehead. “Think, lass. Stop permitting emotion to rule. Bargain with what every woman always barters with.” Muriel moved to the door, leaned out and called for Jenna.
“Muriel, aught be a matter?” Jenna came in, looking from Muriel to Skena. “Och, lass, what has happened?”
Muriel snapped, “Ne’er mind now. No time to blether. Fetch some stew for Skena. Then, go to the lord’s chamber. Collect a fresh sark and kirtle―no’ her best, mind. No need to flaunt feminine wiles overly. Men always come around 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. “Ribbons? What games play you, 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, no’ with sword and lance, but 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, spit out the words. Speak plain.”
“Och, do no’ go simple on me, lass. The man has come to us—whether by the hand of the Lady or an English king it matters little. ’Tis up to you to bend him to your will.”
“You speak as if de Servian has no mind of his own. What if he has other notions?” Skena bit the corner of her lip to keep it from trembling.
“Men tend to think with what exists below their belts. Give him no chance. His being sick means you be 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 be a bloody Sasunnach.” Skena threw up her hands.
“Despite what Scots speak, they do no’ have tails like a dog. He be a man, the new lord here. Tamlyn accepted her English dragon for a mate. Folk tell Aithinne actually had her brothers carry off the Lord Ravenhawke and chain him in her bed. Your cousins were born smart, enough to learn the way of things. Follow their examples. There be more than one way to fight, lass.”
Skena shrugged doubt. “I do no’ think I could ever be so bold as to chain a man in my bed.”
“’Tis nary a need. The knight be already there, naked. Men can be shaped lass through touch, through longing. Those silver eyes watch you with a bottomless hunger.”
Skena sighed misgiving and dejection. “I could no’ shape the will of Angus.”
“You ne’er tried. Closing your eyes and doing a wife’s duty be no way to control a man. I get a feeling with that one abovestairs you will want your eyes wide open. There be a vast chasm betwixt the two. Trust me.”
Skena felt shaken, ready to cry again. Grabbing the sides of her kirtle, she spread the material. “These days I be a fright. I appear like a scullery maid. No man’s head wouldst be turned by this...let alone someone like him. He could have any woman he wants.”
Muriel clucked her tongue and then smiled. “So I hear in your voice that you wouldst 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 have a sore need of him. The Auld Ones show you the path, lass, but expect you to fight to make choices a reality.”
Looking at her shaking hands, Skena fought defeat pressing down upon her shoulders. A man so beautiful would never want a tired mother with two pesky children. “Oh, how I wish the powers of my Ogilvie blood were stronger.”
“Thinking of witching him to your bidding?” Muriel seemed surprised. “’Twas a time you wouldst shun such as dishonorable.”
“There was a time I ne’er lied. These dark days summon 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 bit of a laugh, giving you what you yearn for, but no’ in the manner you envision.”
“If wishes were neeps we wouldst no’ starve this winter. Och, I give up! ’Tis only for children to still believe in magic.” Putting a hand to her waist, she took a steadying breath. “Oh, Muriel, this is hopeless! I shall make a bloody fool of myself, aiming to woo de Servian’s favor. I have no skills to ensnare such a man.”
Muriel shook her head as she plucked herbs out of the boxes. “Do no’ judge these things by past experiences. You had no desire for a trough-fisted husband. You were no’ stirred to learn about that side of your nature. Well, you have the motivation any woman could desire up there in your bed. Stop fashin’. Fix your mind on the chore ahead.”
“I wish―”
“You spake you swore off wishes. Hold true, lass. This be nay moment for wishes. ’Tis a time for deeds.”
Skena lifted the dried sprig of verbena 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?
She grimaced, running her hand through her long hair. “Lies and wishes. I have had enough of both to last a lifetime!”
“’Tis be the nature of females. We seek hope for solutions, and when it does no’ come, we stoop to lies. Your body tells you one thing. Logic adds its own voice. Only, you feel duty too strongly. You be loyal to a fault—e’en to a husband you did no’ love. These are sinister days, Skena. Angus arrogantly followed his fate to Dunbar and paid price, little carin’ to what might befall his children, his wife, his people. He be dead. Loyalty to him canno’ be put before devotion to your children, to the people of our clan. Forget the past. Face forward and do what you needs must.” Muriel reached up and brushed her hair away from her brow. “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 no’, then the Earl Challon wouldst place his own man in charge. Count your blessings, lass, that Noel de Servian assumes the mantle of baron. Fix his desires upon you. Forge a new life for you both. Stop fashin’ about Fate being cruel. Count the blessings of the Auld Ones. They give you the means to save your place here. If you but find courage.”
“I never had mettle 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 no’ 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 be familiar to reining in, to curbing your wants and needs to what Angus allowed. Reach deep inside and find your power, lass.”
Skena felt despair washing over her. “Oh, Muriel, I breathe in fear.”
“Such be a woman’s lot. But we face our fears. We use wits.” She winked at Skena, “And our bodies. We fashion our lives the best we can. Remember, de Servian be no’ real dragon, just a foster dragon.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“’Tis simple. You seek to make it thorny.” Muriel hugged her. “’Tis a matter of seeing what be good, what can be changed, instead of bemoaning things are no’ perfect. Nothing e’er be. In the end, life be what we can make of it. You be stronger than you ever see. A late bloomer, you grew up under Angus’ 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 bend fate, shape how things will go for Craigendan. Mayhap even find something more in life than you ever expected outside of dreams and wishes.”
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 faith of a woman wanting something she had never had.
Love.