Chapter Thirteen
When you want love as badly as you need to breathe, your heart opens.
Then, magic rises, and waiting are all sorts of possibilities...
—Iain Mackenzie Montgomerie
Holding a wooden box full of all that she would need for lancing de Servian’s back, Skena marched up the winding staircase. It rankled that Guillaume Challon had sent for her, ordered her immediate presence, as if she were naught but a servant.
“Bloody dragons think they be especial. The world trembles at their feet. Ha! I have a mind to give this one a proper set down,” Skena grumbled to herself, trying to rebuild her courage.
Muriel trailed behind her, carrying a stack of linen cloths. “Lass. Ceasing the muttering. ’Tis a bad habit you ne’er lost.”
Skena scowled. Pausing on the step, she glanced over her shoulder, with an innocent face. “Muriel, did you say aught?”
Muriel’s laugh was mocking. “Cease mummery. I be the one hard of hearin’ these days, no’ you. Hard-headed—’tis what you be. Keep your eyes on the target, Skena, no’ your wounded pride. Whilst they may have many uses, men be an arrogant lot. Methinks these Norman lords of Challon likely be worse than most—a power unto themselves. Such men give orders offhand, comes natural to them, so they ne’er stop to think how they sound. If you beard this dragon about his brisk order, he wouldst be flummoxed you took umbrage. Request or command―’tis the same in their view. They expect to be obeyed. Battle for the things that matter most, ignore what you canno’ change, or has little true and lasting value.”
“How did you get so wise, my friend?” Skena offered Muriel a smile.
Despite silver kissing her thick, red hair, Muriel’s brown eyes shown with an eternal beauty. “By makin’ too many mistakes in my long life. I but try to save you from the same missteps.”
Skena leaned over and placed a light kiss on the woman’s cheek. “Thank you, dear Muriel. I remain indebted to you for being my guide. You be a second mother to me.”
“And you be the daughter I wish I bore, instead of that ruddy slattern I gave life to. I swear she be a cursed changeling, switched at birth! She canno’ be of my blood.” Muriel’s mouth turned down at the corners, set as she thought of her only child, who she wished to perdition at least twice a sennight. “Remind yourself what looms ahead and you will do right by us all.”
With Muriel’s sage advice ringing in her ears, Skena banked her temper and entered the lord’s chamber. De Servian, with a plaide spread over his legs and hips, sat propped up in bed. Across the room Guillaume Challon poked at the peat fire, stirring it to burn brighter. Skena’s steps faltered. She bit her tongue when she saw the stack of extra peat and the pile of splinted boards next to the fireplace. He needed the high wood blaze to make the poker hot enough to properly sear flesh, but she fretted over how much fuel it would cost, nearly a week’s worth, she feared.
Muriel set the stack of linen on the end of the bench, harrumphed a reminder to Skena, and then turned to leave. “If you need me, lass, I will be belowstairs playing shepherd.” Her way of telling Skena not to be anxious about Craigendan’s women and the English soldiers, that she would keep a watchful eye on everything.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Skena,” Guillaume remarked needlessly—simply so he could pass along the hint of rebuke in his voice.
At first, he spared her only a fleeting glance. Then, his head snapped back, and he actually took her measure. Skena set her teeth to keep from replying, afraid he was going to scold her for taking time to change clothing and make herself more presentable whilst he waited. His eyes widened and slowly travelled down her body, then back to her face, taking in that she was now more in keeping with the lady of Craigendan. He inclined his head in approval, but offered no comment. An appreciative glint flickered in his eyes, yet presented with a distance, as though he set her or himself outside limits. Since this man was to be her cousin Rowanne’s husband come spring, Skena gave him high respect that he was holding unto himself, instead of the usual out of sight, out of mind morals of some men. Too oft they thought they could do as pleased when away from the watchful eye of their wives or betrotheds. This man of Challon was a riddle.
She pretended not to take notice of his reaction, as she sorted out the herbs and worts, lining them up on the tabletop.
“You have everything needed in ready?” Guillaume inquired.
“Aye, poultices for drawing, salve for healing and to stop pain outside. Mixings for a strong anodyne for inside.” As she began measuring out the various dried leaves and barks into the bowl to grind, Guillaume moved to the table, closely observing everything she did.
His voice was challenging. “What do you plan to ply Noel with, Lady Skena? You said you have no healer here. Are you so certain that you know what herbs and their measure?”
Skena’s lips flattened to hold back her response. After a breath she said, “I blend feverfew, willow bark, mandrake and mawseed in mead as the anodyne for his pain. I have a salve with mawseed as well. We can apply it after the cautery.”
“Mawseed? Poppy?” He lifted the vial and sniffed.
“What some call it. I buy it from Scots tinkers who get it from England. I add in a few drops to free his mind from the intense pain he will feel. ’Tis not enough to harm him.” When he merely stared at her, Skena glared back. Fed up with his doubts, she lifted the cup and drank a measure. “Satisfied?”
Guillaume frowned. “That was hardly necessary, Lady Skena.”
“Lord Lochshane, poisoning the new baron wouldst hardly serve me or my people well.” Skena brindled in spite of Muriel’s warnings. “Since he be foster brother to the Black Dragon—our overlord—I ken it wouldst mean my life if harm befalls de Servian. I was no’ raised as a lackwit.”
“Never wouldst I adjudge you as such. Howbeit, people have been poisoned carelessly by incorrect doses of poppy and mandrake.”
“Guillaume—leave Skena be,” de Servian called from the bed. “If you do not cease annoying her, I shall put my knee to your chest and allow her to pour the brew down your throat to prove to you that it’s safe.”
Guillaume chuckled. “Not in the condition you are in, my friend. Damian took an arrow to the chest and a couple to his thigh in August, and recovers still. Even he could best you in a fair fight.”
“Allow Skena to care for me. I could not ask for better treatment than I have received at her hands.” De Servian’s words were softly spoken, but it was clear he would brook no opposition.
Skena added a bit more mead to the cup and carried it to the bed. She held it out to de Servian and then waited for him to take it.
“More stump water?” Noel gave her a sensual smile.
Her heart did a slow roll as heat flared in the pit of her belly. The worts and the drink were already starting to affect her, she feared, but that was little compared to de Servian’s sway over her. Something more potent hit my blood, overpowering its effect, she thought. Oh, aye, she was smart enough to recognize this man let loose that erratic fluttering in her chest. Despite knowing he was baron here now, that stark reality did little to stem the desire she felt for the Norman knight.
“Nay, you should relish this. ’Tis mead―cider and honey. It enhances the worts, take the edge off your pain. I want this to go as easy for you as possible.”
“And do I get a reward for drinking this witch’s potion?” One corner of his mouth pulled up higher, as he fought to suppress a grin.
Their eyes met as he took the goblet of mead, both remembering how he had kissed her the last time she gave him a tansy. He finally raised the cup in a salute, and then drank the contents in three swallows. As he passed it back to her, the pale eyes skimmed over her in the dark green sark. She had left off the shawl she oft pinned at her left shoulder, allowing the low, square neck to go uncovered.
“Green becomes you, Skena.” Fires of passion flashed in his smoldering gaze, as he reached out and took hold of her braid. Slowly, he unwound the plait and pulled the white ribbon from the thick mass. “I prefer it free.”
Skena, dizzy and lost to the lure of those silvery depths ringed with brilliant amber, had to force herself to remember Guillaume Challon watched them. Emotions skittered around inside her, warring for her mind. Her body and heart too easily succumbed to his dark lures. Her mind rebelled that the lord of the keep just told her how he wanted her hair worn.
Shrugging, she was now embarrassed she had fussed with her appearance in the hopes of pleasing him. “I wanted it out of the way whilst we worked.”
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, or 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 apology sincere.
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 wouldst come to know me before I had to tell you of the change,” he explained.
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 back 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. Such an intimate touch surely drew his notice. Anger once more tried to surface in her, misliking he might think that she was trying to use her feminine wiles to draw the new baron’s desire. Fury turned to shame. Well, was that not what Muriel told her to do?
“We can be friends, Skena. I 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. Galen followed. He glowered at the two Englishmen, but then looked to her. “Where do you need 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 flattened as he met the Lord Lochshane’s eyes, man-to-man, not as a servant to a nobleman. Finally, he turned back to Skena, 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 woolen 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 the hot water. Galen wanted to stay and glower at the Englishman, but she shooed him off as well. Ignoring the old man’s frown, Skena set tallow cups about to give them more light to work by.
Stepping past her, Guillaume sat on a footstool before the fire, and began to sharpen a long and very thin blade. Skena watched him for an instant, revulsion spreading through the pit of her stomach, aware that blade would be used to cut into de Servian.
Noel paused before lying face down on the makeshift work 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 wouldst see you begging me to split that wound open with a dull, rusty knife. ’Tis ugly, getting darker with streaks fanning out from it. You had piss-poor healers treating you at Berwick.”
“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 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. No time to delay. The bloody fingers extending 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, “This will distress you as I cover the sensitive area, but it deadens the pain. You will be thankful for its mercy when we place the hot pads over the wound to draw the corruption to the surface.”
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 Challon watched as she 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 no. “I assure you of my abilities. It needs must be done.” She met his level stare. “I be stronger than I appear, my lord. I have to be.”
Almost girding himself with the inevitability, he exhaled. Clearly, Guillaume Challon was not satisfied with her answer, yet aware he had no choice. He lifted the bucket and poured steamy water into the bowl for her. “Ordinarily, it wouldst take a half-score men to hold down Noel de Servian, and come away worse for wear—broken noses, bumps to their crowns, mayhap a broken rib or two. Whilst men tend to warm to a good fight, I cannot run risk of my friend wiggling about. He needs must remain still. If he does, this will go quickly and can be handled without peril to him. He cannot flinch. 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.
“True, but he could still recoil. 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.” Sir 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 the old man to pass me things as I shall 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 be 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.” Sir 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. “Do not fear. He will not 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. “He may be a king’s fool, but do not be scared. I wouldst never bring harm to you, Skena.”
Jenna came in as Sir Guillaume placed the first hot poultice to Noel’s side. Instant agony plagued de Servian, but Skena saw him fighting against the mind-searing pain. She knew the longer the pads 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 Sir Guillaume claimed: Noel held perfectly still, ever mindful of his grasp on her arms. Sweat beaded across his forehead.
“Wouldst you disapprove if I made one of those wishes you dismiss so blithely?” Noel nearly forced the words out.
“’Tis your words to waste. Wishes endlessly prove they have no value. If wishes were carrots, rabbits would have a full belly this night.” Skena tried to match his bravery, but tears welled in her eyes.
Noel gave her a weak smile. “So, still you 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 my eyes open to possibilities. I now have hope.”
“Wishing never lightened my burden, brought me a chest full of gold, nor filled an empty larder. People spend too much time wishing for what they canno’ have,” she countered, attempting to distance her emotions.
“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. 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 gave a wish 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. Naught more.” Her shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, not wanting to admit his words reached her.
“So determined to doubt magic in all forms? ’Tis truth. Only, I was headed to Glenrogha first. I wanted to see Julian, pay my respects to his new bride, and see how married life suited them. I met her last August. I 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 the Cailleach, the Lady of Winter. Had they not found me I wouldst 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 hopes? What about Yuletide wishes? ’Tis believed that miracles can come at this time of year—that when one opens their heart, anything is possible.”
Sir 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 the sense of duty to her people and Craigendan.
As another poultice was placed on his back, his whole body vibrated with the torture beyond enduring.
“Open your heart, Skena. Let me in. Walk in my mind...” Noel whispered through his agony, “become one with me.”