Chapter Fifteen
Some sisters you love. Some you hate.
The rare one wants to plunge a knife in your back.
Learn which is which, before it’s too late.
—John Francis Ogilvie
“Skena,” the soft whisper came, reaching through the dark oblivion.
She jerked awake, instantly fearing it was Noel and he was in pain. As she opened her eyes, she saw Owen leaning over her. Stiff from sleeping half curled up in the corner, she stretched her numb legs out and yawned. “What is the hour?”
“A ways to dawning yet. Sorry to break your slumber. The wolves scratch at the gate again. The run be finished as you wanted. Everything be ready. Do you wish to start the killing of the wolves this night or wait?”
“Never again say the word wish to me.” Skena stood up, trying to shake the sleep from her body. “If we wait, the chances increase they will find a way in when we are unawares. Go waken Galen.”
“Aye, I do as you bade,” the lad said, then scurried off.
Skena went to the bed to check on de Servian. He rested partially on his belly and seemed so peaceful. Placing her hand to his back, she smiled when his flesh felt cool to the touch. He was a strong man. He would heal now the poison had been purged from his body.
She was not sure how love could grow so strong, so rapidly, when she scarcely knew him, but as she caressed his hair, she ached with the emotions rising in her. “Och, what a stupid fool I be,” she whispered, before turning away.
♦◊♦
Skena untied the lacings at the side of her kirtle and pulled it over her head, just as Dorcas entered the small room off the side of the kitchen. She rarely welcomed dealing with Dorcas, but she particularly lacked enthusiasm for a confrontation when Muriel’s daughter wore that expression. It bode ill. Since Angus’s death, Dorcas was dissatisfied with her lot in life and spoiling for a fuss. She reveled in vexing Skena at every turn. Skena paused to exhale resignation. Offering the woman a cool look of dismissal, she laid her gown neatly on the bench.
“Off to play little soldier?” Dorcas asked in a snide tone. She strolled closer, her eyes judging Skena’s appearance, finding fault—as always. “You’ve lost weight, Skena.”
Skena did not stand on manners. Dorcas never did. Why should she? “And you gained it. Plump be the word that comes to mind.”
“You―” Dorcas’s brown eyes widened, but then she reined in her temper. “You grow more haggard with each passing day. ’Tis hard to believe, Skena, you be only three summers younger than me.”
“Only three? I assumed you were much older. I figured ’tis why you are getting a second chin, eh?” Skena chucked her under the jaw to add to the insult.
Dorcas slapped Skena’s arm away from her. The wild look in her eyes said she was considering slapping Skena’s face, too, but knew that would be one step too far.
“Go ahead, Dorcas. Hitting the lady of the keep be a flogging offence.” Skena lifted her chin, giving her a chilling stare. “Of course, I shan’t wait for that. Do it. I shall knock you on your plump arse. I be thinner, aye, but ’tis gone to muscle, whilst your weight has gone to fat. So just try it. And I will marry you off to a Campbell serf so fast your head will no’ have time to spin.”
“You wouldst ne’er do that.” Always quick to temper, Dorcas’s fury was rising. Yet, the emotion flickered in her eyes, knowing Skena meant it. “Muriel—”
“You be naught but a burden to her. So do no’ think to use her to sway my mind.”
Dorcas’s eyes narrowed. “You be unwise to try and curry favor with this Sasunnach lord.”
Skena shrugged, not being pushed into defending herself. “Lord de Servian be the new baron of Craigendan, sent by the English king. Best soften your tone when you speak of him.”
Dorcas sucked in her belly, either attempting to appear thinner or to stiffen her spine. “You will be sorry, Skena.”
“How, pray tell? You no longer have sway here. I do no’ toss you out into the snow simply because Muriel be your màthair. The limited protection once afforded you as my lord husband’s leman be at end.” Skena reminded her bluntly. “Angus will no’ be coming back.”
Instead of infuriating Dorcas as the words should have, her expression went sly. “So sure of this, Skena?”
Skena’s laugh of disbelief popped out. “What nonsense? Angus died at Spottsmuir. I ken you cared for him, perhaps grieve for him, but that part of your life be over. Come spring, I plan on making a marriage for you.”
“Marriage? Angus will no’ like that. He will be displeased you dared try to wed me away to some swine herder,” Dorcas spewed in rage.
“Cease such fanciful babble. Keep talking like that and people will think you have gone soft in the head because of Angus’s death,” Skena scoffed.
“I be no’ daft. Cypher on it, Skena. How did we hear Angus died? Word brought back by Duncan Comyn, a coward who―by his own confession―ne’er made it to the battle. No man from Craigendan returned to say they saw Angus slain. ’Tis naught but Duncan’s worthless tides. If a Comyn put forth the night was black, Angus always said he wouldst go check for himself,” Dorcas argued. “Why have you no’ gone and checked for yourself, Lady Skena?”
“I could no’ leave Craigendan, you ken that.”
“You did no’ even send a messenger to make sure, or see if his body could be brought back for burial here.” Dorcas moved closer to press the point.
“Who was there to send? Galen? He be too old for that trip. Owen or Kenneth? Little more than children, and have never been farther than Glen Shane.” Skena went back to pulling on the worn, woolen kirtle, and then the short mail habergeon over that.
“Methinks you do no’ want Angus to come home. Why you pay little mind if he be dead or alive.” Dorcas stepped before Skena, blocking her from reaching for the surcoat.
“Stuff and feathers, Dorcas. He would have returned long before now if he were unharmed.” Skena was starting to lose patience with her half-sister.
“Wouldst he? To you?” Dorcas sneered. “A woman who could no’ care less? Who already has another man in her bed?”
“Dorcas, I be sorry you grieve for Angus, but do no’ allow it to rot your mind―”
“Oh, aye, I grieve. I was more a wife to him than you ever were. You were naught but wife in name only.”
It was always the same in dealing with Dorcas. Skena was tired of this old hurtful game. She went for the throat to put the matter to end. “S’truth, but name be what matters most, eh?”
Dorcas flinched, her body almost vibrating with rage. “Go ahead, waggle how fate always favored you instead of me. Angus still breathes. Mark my words. I wouldst ken it in my heart if it were otherwise.” She clenched her fist to the center of her chest. “They say William Wallace hides out in Selkirk Forest, gathering men to him. You ken how set Angus was to ridding Scotland of the English. I wager that he and some of our men survived Dunbar and went to join this rebel Wallace.”
“You waste wishes, Dorcas. Angus shall never come back. Learn to make the best of it. When the weather turns, I shall make a marriage for you, and be done with your presence, once and for all.”
Dorcas spoke the hollow bluff. “There will be Hell to pay. Angus will be furious to find you married me off whilst he was away. You do no’ have the right.”
“Aye, I have that right, and there be little you can do to stop me,” Skena countered. “I took you in to Craigendan when you were in need because Muriel asked for it.”
“I have as much claim to Craigendan as you―” she started with the old argument, only to be cut off.
“Lies. I permitted you to interfere in my marriage to Angus, because that was what he wanted. And whilst I did no’ love him as mayhap he sought, few marriages of the nobility are made because of love. But respect, honor, trust―those are things people live by. You and he did me a wrong, dishonored me before all, but I put up with it. No longer. I have enough of your selfish ways, your constant attempts to undermine my authority here. It ends now. Angus be dead―”
“He lives! You will regret this day when he comes back.” Dorcas’s voice rose as she issued the threat.
Skena went on as if Dorcas had not spoken. “We both needs must move on with our lives as best we can.”
“Move on? Oh, that be what you are doing? Aiming to win the attention of this English lord? What makes you imagine you can please him any better than you did Angus? I could turn his head, if I wish. Then, mayhap you will no’ be arranging a marriage for me because the Lord de Servian shall want me here. Why wouldst he want some frigid, old, skinny woman such as you, when he could have a young wife without bairns hanging to her kirtle tails? One who wouldst do more than lie in bed like a stick of wood?”
Skena slowly sucked in a breath to prevent Dorcas from seeing her words hit target. Had she not fretted over the same problem? Only, the concern was magnified now because the bond was woven. To watch as de Servian took a wife, and placed her as lady of Craigendan, would be too hard to bear. She would not survive.
Skena tightened the belt around her waist with a hard jerk. “You better start learning skills for herding swine, lass, because if I am too old for de Servian, you being seven summers older be near hag.”
“Seven!” she gasped. “You ken ’tis only three.”
Skena shrugged. “Sorry.” She picked up the mantle and swung it around her shoulders. “I tend to forget. Mayhap you should wash your face in the morning dew on May Day. ’Tis spake it makes you appear younger.” Picking up the quiver with arrows and the bow, she headed for the door.
“Skena, beware. Angus lives,” Dorcas called to her back.
Skena did not slow, not giving any indication that the words sent a chill up her spine.
♦◊♦
Snow crunched under her boots as she made her way to the postern gate. Galen stood holding a torch, waiting with Owen and Kenneth. Sparing them little thought, her eyes skimmed up and down the run they had hastily constructed. Over the height of a man’s head, the structure was a scavenged mix of boards and woven tree limbs, yet appeared sturdy enough to hold two wolves long enough for her to loose arrows into them. Skena gave the interior a quick inspection, noting the trap they created for her to hide near the door. She could open the gate to let in a couple of wolves, then lock herself into the blind. From its protection, she should be able to fell the beasts with ease.
The horses in the stable were fussing, one or two even trying to kick their way out of their stalls, alarmed by the scent of the pack. She glanced up at the bright, full moon overhead. A killing moon. She inhaled a deep breath and held still, attempting to quash the fluttering inside her stomach. Facing the wolves would not be simple. Only, Craigendan was still hers...for now. She could do this. It should be straightforward—a chore of just letting them in one or two at a time and picking them off. She needed to know she still had some measure of control in her life.
“Let us make done of this.” She opened the end of the pen. “You poke at them with the spears. Keep them from jumping over the fencing. Hold them in the run.”
Galen frowned in disapproval. “Skena, mayhap you should go seek help from Lord Lochshane. A man might be handy...even if a Sasunnach.”
“Nay. This will be over in a thrice. On the morrow, they take Craigendan away from me.” Her voice quavered, though she did her best to hide it. “This land be mine, my heritage, my birthright. I was forced to give it up to Angus. Commanded by King Alexander to wed him. Fool man, he could have fallen off the cliff a few weeks earlier and I wouldst no’ been given like a prize—barely more than a child bride to a man a score years older than me. Now, Craigendan is given away to another, again without a by your leave from me. This time, by an English King. For this small space, I still be lady here. And no Englishmen, Dorcas, nor a pack of thieving wolves will rob me of it! I may have to give up Craigendan on the morrow. So be it. But it will be in a time of my choosing and in my own way. Until that breath—I remain lady here, and this keep runs by my will, my command.”
Galen gave her a crooked smile. “Brave talk, Skena lass. ’Tis that damn Ogilvie blood in you.”
“Let us see an end to this.” She lifted her chin to reinforce her order.
The old man gave her a nod. “Aye, my lady.”
As she entered the pen, she pulled up abruptly. From the outside the long cage appeared larger, mayhap even too big for her purposes. Once inside, it seemed narrow, confined. She choked back the rise of panic, feeling the crude walls close in on her. Facing the wolf in the open with a sword had been one thing. Bringing down two with a bow and arrow in a pen where she stood behind protection was an entirely different matter, a simple matter. Or so she told herself. Reaching for that confidence, she strode the length of the run going to the postern door.
As Skena neared the end, she saw that Galen had already removed all the swords but one. The door rocked from at least two wolves digging on either side of the remaining broadsword. The blade vibrated from the force of the wolves’ constant jarring. Having second thoughts, she considered if she could not stand and watch until they finished digging their way under, and then drive a sword into them when they pushed through. But that would leave her out in the open. Conceivably both could shove under at the same time and she would be left to deal with two half-starved animals. Memories of the wolf’s teeth snapping at her throat, the scent of his blood, flashed to mind. So real, she could almost taste the coppery scent, feel the hot splash of the animal’s blood as the sword slashed through his neck.
Forcing back the recollection, she set the quiver of arrows and the short bow inside the trap, and then went to remove the final sword. Taking hold of the hilt she rocked it back and forth in the frozen ground until it loosened. The wolves jerked back, but yipping not far away said they still prowled near the curtain wall. Their hunger was driving them to be too bold, too reckless. A quick release as the blade pulled free nearly sent her tumbling backward. She leaned it inside the trap next to the quiver, ready should she need it.
All she had to do was unbolt the postern gate, swing it open, and allow two wolves in. Once they were inside, she could slam it shut, stepping into the blind and closing the trap to give her cover. Two slots had been left through which she could aim the arrows.
“Simple as mincemeat tarts.” Taking a steadying breath, she yanked the heavy bolt back.
Just as it slid all the way back, her eye was distracted. Someone stood at the top of the stairs to the boulevard. Though moonlight was casting deep shadows, it was clearly a man, not one of her women pretending to be a soldier. As she stared, almost held in a dark thrall, a chill shuddered up her spine. Little paying attention to the postern door being hammered by the wolves, her heart stopped. He started down the staircase, then paused as he stepped into a silvery shaft of light, just enough to cast his face in half-shadow.
The world about Skena spun.
Angus.