Chapter Eighteen
Sometimes, ‘tis the smallest of things
that are the most important ones.
—Adrian Macgillivray
Since all within the keep had been ordered to show themselves before fast was broken, the people of Craigendan whispered change rode on the cool morning air. Aware of the strong English presence, they surely suspected a new lord was the next order of matters. What was left―how it would affect their everyday lives.
Skena smirked when she heard one of her ladies chime, “Well, so long as it ain’t no bloody Campbell or Comyn, canno’ be too hard to live with, eh?”
Skena glanced at the solemn faces filling the Great Hall, searching each to judge their moods. Stark uncertainty was upon most countenances. The year had been long, the drought seeming to parch their souls as well as the land. Now, with the winter prospects of food running short, the people of Craigendan were tired and fearful. The biggest portion of her clan members kept to the shadows of the far walls, observing as de Servian entered with Skena on his arm and Guillaume Challon just behind him.
She glanced to her side, seeing what her people did. Handsome men. Men of strength and power. She noticed the wistful looks of the younger women in the keep. Even the elders like Muriel watched the Englishmen with guarded admiration. Something Craigendan had been lacking these past eight months.
Her stomach tightened. There was no mistaking it. Noel strode in with the mantle of power resting upon his shoulders. This Englishman was assuming command of Craigendan and none failed to see this. Life here would be forevermore changed. Well, so be it.
In some ways, Craigendan had been in suspension these past three seasons. First had been the waiting for the men to return, for everything to pick up where it left off. Then, tides came of Dunbar, bringing mourning and sorrow to visit women who had lost fathers, brothers, husbands or betrotheds. On the heels of the black news, the drought hit, and then followed the summer and autumn of struggle. And more waiting. Everyone knew with Edward Longshanks in control of the country, and the fact Craigendan had fought for the Scottish side, the women left behind would pay the price for the men’s lèse-majesté. ’Twas only a matter of when and what form it would come.
Noel walked to the trestle table, and paused, putting his hand on the back of the lord’s chair. That simple act sent a ripple throughout the whole chamber. Just as he knew it would. The words that he would speak were naught but a formality.
All understood Noel de Servian was the baron now.
He slowly allowed his gaze to circle the Great Hall, silently marking what she had warned him of―except for those belonging to the Challon cadre, the only males were old or lame; the rest were barely more than boys. Turning to Guillaume, Noel arched a dubious brow. The other man merely gave a faint nod in a way which bespoke the familiarity that they understood the other’s thoughts.
“I am sure rumors run rife with my coming, curiosity about this English stranger,” Noel began. “Speculation ends now. I am Sir Noel de Servian. Edward Plantagenet has granted me title and charter to Craigendan. I am your new lord. Already I pay homage to Julian Challon, your overlord. We were raised as foster brothers. I have heard Scots say that between foster brothers the bond is stronger than that of brothers of blood. I agree. Though not kin by birth, I am a man of Challon by choice. Come nightfall and chores are done, the men amongst you will come bend the knee and tend your oath to me. In time, you will find I am a firm master, but one with a soft hand. Serve me well and I will do all in my power to see you prosper and are protected from any danger that threatens Craigendan. I will shield you with my very life. The troth of a man of Challon is gold.”
Skena’s vision roved around her people, trying to fathom their reactions to the news. Resentment was seen on a few, mostly the small number of males. Some of the women looked relieved. Skena almost smiled, knowing they were sighing at the prospects of not having to do the many chores, which belonged to men. With a new lord, new men would follow. Come spring, she figured there would be several weddings. Life would gradually return to normal.
Also not escaping their notice―her hand on de Servian’s arm. She was nervous despite feeling confident they would accept de Servian as the chief, especial when it was clear he held her approval.
As her line of vision wandered past Sir Guillaume, a little behind and to the left of Noel, Skena caught sight of Dorcas in the half-shadows of the Great Hall’s archway. She tensed, fearful what her half-sister might do to try and interrupt the investment ceremony. Her heart jumped, another surge of resentment hitting her blood. She had specifically ordered Dorcas back to the wall, and as usual, the woman ignored her command. Since the dimness hid her face, it was nearly impossible to see what expression she wore.
“I am also pleased to inform you that the Lady Skena has consented to soon speak her troth, not only accepting me as lord here, but as her husband, as well,” Noel said, lifting her hand from his arm to kiss it before all gathered.
Skena started to turn her attention back to Noel, but then a man entered the far hallway and came to stand just behind Dorcas. Torn, Skena needed to show how happy she was with Noel’s pronouncement, yet her eyes were pulled back to the shadowy figure, leaning toward her sister, the manner intimate, as if he were whispering in her ear. Dizziness spun through her. Even so, she had no time to focus on the couple on the far side of the room, for Noel moved closer and kissed her cheek, blocking her view.
“Is this not so, Skena?” he asked.
Skena struggled to hide her confusion with a smile. She saw he wanted her response, and knew that it was important to him. She gave it, having no idea to what she was agreeing. “Whatever my lord wishes, I want as well.”
Noel gifted her with a grin, pleased by her answer. He pulled out the lady’s chair for her, allowing her to sit at the position that would remain hers―lady of the keep. She slid into it, and then nodded to Muriel to start the servants fetching the food.
Skena drew a breath, steading herself for a heartbeat. The whole room receded about her, as she adjusted to the enormity of the moment. Everything had changed. Another man now sat in the lord’s chair, soon she was to wed—and this time, by her choice. Oh, she had the welfare of her people in mind, but that had little to do with her joyful acceptance of Noel’s offer of marriage. In her heart, she felt Noel would be good for Craigendan. Good for her.
Though he had tried earlier to intimidate her in the chamber, he had never dictated to her how things would be, never overbearing as Angus had been throughout their marriage. The only time she had managed to bend his will was on the matter of keeping Andrew at Craigendan, instead of sending him to Angus’s younger brother in the Lowlands to begin training.
The dark remembrance of Angus sent a chill up her spine, and almost against will, she turned her eyes toward the far archway to see whether Dorcas remained, and if the shadowy man was still with her sister. The doorway was empty. Instead of feeling relief, foreboding formed a knot in her belly, recalling how his silhouette had the same shape and height as Angus. Noel had assured her Angus was dead, and that pledge had not been given lightly. In spite of Noel’s words, her first impression had been the man was Angus. There was something in the way he had leaned toward Dorcas that bespoke familiarity, a lovers’ closeness that she had been forced to observe for the past five years.
Skena was distracted from her troubling thoughts as Annis and Andrew entered, Jenna herding them to the table. Her son took one look at de Servian, sitting in the lord’s chair, broke away from her maidservant and ran to Noel. Without asking, he clamored up onto Noel’s knee and hugged him.
“You be better,” Andrew exclaimed. “Jenna was tellin’ us how you battled the wolves with màthair. Oh, I wish I could have seen you swinging your sword! See, Mama, I told you he was a valiant knight, a warrior true, just like I asked the Cailleach for.”
Annis stood, half-hiding against Jenna’s leg, her brown eyes watching her brother sitting upon Noel’s thigh, same as the boy had done numerous times with his father. Just as she had never been permitted to do. Her daughter had tried to crawl up onto Angus’s lap several times when she was younger, only to be rebuffed and told to go away. She stopped asking after a time. Skena wanted to go to her and hug her, then kiss away the lingering hurt. The little girl could not understand why her father had never loved her.
Noel noticed Skena looking behind them, so turned to see what had captured her attention. “Come, Lady Annis, I fortunately have another leg.” He patted his thigh and then held out his hand to the child.
Annis backed up, startled by his offer. Jenna gently took hold of her shoulders to steady the skittish child. Poor Annis. Outside of Galen, or some of the servants, no male had ever called her by name. Skena’s heart squeezed, watching Annis’s frightened expression. Oh, she was not scared of de Servian. Like her mother, Annis was too afraid to believe wishes could come true.
Noel plucked a hulled hazelnut from the bowl that had been placed before him. He gave one to Andrew and then took another and held it out to her little girl. Annis loved hazelnuts, but even the promise of the special treat was not bribe enough to lure her closer to the Englishman.
“What bothers the girl?” Noel asked, then popped the nut into his mouth. Reaching into the bowl, he took another and once again presented it for Annis.
Skena’s hands shook as she picked up her knife and tried to slice the bread. With effort, she cut a piece and placed it on the plate for Noel. Finally, she could not hold back the words. “Do no’ call her that.”
The chide came out harsh, too harsh for a man who had done naught to earn it. The sin was not his. Still, it was difficult to hear this man refer to her daughter in the same manner Angus had.
Noel watched her, puzzled by her strong reaction, unsure what he had done to summon the rebuke. Again, he ate the nut that Annis refused.
Pretending to be engrossed in cutting cheese and meat and placing the food on his plate, Skena ignored him. Or tried. She felt his stare boring into her, willing her to look up. Unable to resist, her gaze lifted to meet his. Those damnable silver eyes held the power to pierce her soul, as if she could hide nothing from this man. Vexed, she picked up a piece of cheese to take a bite. When Noel continued to stare at her, she instead tossed it down to the metal plate.
“Methinks you be a patient man, Noel de Servian,” she said, but her tone conveyed she did not currently rank the characteristic as entirely positive.
He inclined his head. “I have had much practice. I am not a young man, Skena, as you know. I burned out a lot of my impatient ways in my green years. One also learns to control your words and your temper when you serve King Edward. He has more than enough of both to spare. They speak of his Angevin rages rivaling those of his great-grandsire.”
Skena fixed on the information. “A fearsome man—your king. His deeds this past spring and summer reached all ears in the far corners of these lands. What sort of man wages war to bend people to his will? Destroys towns, slaughters men, women―even children―by the hundred score.”
Noel exhaled, then took another nut and held it out to Annis. And waited for the child to snatch it. At length, he answered. “Edward Plantagenet is a complex man. I oft found myself liking the man, but misliking the king. Other times, I strongly misliked both.”
Skena picked up a slice of bread, but again found she had no appetite, so passed it to Andrew. “You were at Berwick?” she asked.
Noel avoided meeting her probing stare. His long, nimble fingers wiggled the nut back and forth to lure Annis. “Annis...” he whispered. Skena presumed he was not going to answer her question. Then, he dropped his hand and closed his eyes. Leaning his head back, grim emotions etched the corners of his sensual mouth.
“Aye, I was at Berwick. To my everlasting disgust and shame.” He slowly raised his head and looked at her. “One of the times I misliked the king and the man. Intensely.”
She swallowed hard. “Then, it was as bad as the tales spake?”
Noel’s expression was hard, level. “Worse. You cannot imagine just how horrible. I wouldst have you never to know such ugliness.”
Her eyes raked over the handsome man, taking in the ashen shade of his skin. What he had witnessed left deep scars on Noel de Servian’s soul. She lived in this sheltered pocket of the Highlands, protected by her uncle, the powerful Hadrian, Earl Kinmarch. War had never come to the gates of Craigendan. Oh, the keep was smaller than the mighty fiefs of Kinmarch, Glenrogha, Lochshane and Kinloch, but all the lesser holdings of Glen Shane’s honors had been safe and thrived as well. Sadly, Skena understood men were oft ugly to other men; greed, desires, hatreds could push them to do terrible things. Fortunately, she had never witnessed such barbarity.
“’Tis why you awaken covered in sweat?” Skena asked, but the question did not need his reply. “At first, I thought your body still fought the cold, or the poison from your wound brought on the fever. Each night you awoke, your heart pounding, so hard it rocked your whole body. You spake odd words. They made no sense to me then. I understand now.”
“The things I saw at Berwick are some of the foulest images the mind is forced to endure. It sorrows me people are capable of such atrocities.” Noel paused, despair tempered with determination flickering in his pale eyes. “I will fight to protect what is mine, but I hope to God I shall never go to war again. I am too old to face that ugliness.”
Skena reached out and touched his arm, hearing the sadness, the weariness in his words. The years of emptiness. “You keep calling yourself old—”
“I am.” Hunger was clear in his countenance, in the timber of his voice.
“Not in my eyes.” Skena felt that shortness of air he always brought to her, and forced herself to draw a calming breath.
Two souls, each needing the other so much.
Their focus was broken as Annis shyly took Noel’s hand and uncurled his fingers from around the nut. Her huge eyes, for once not dimmed by the fear of rejection, sparkled with anticipation. Popping the treat into her mouth, she chewed it slowly. Her pale cheeks crimsoned with a blush, but then, she timidly slid upon his knee. De Servian’s arm curled around Annis and pulled her back to a firmer seat upon his thigh. Annis looked up at the tall man, adoration in her gaze.
Emotions overwhelming her, Skena put a shaking hand to her mouth in a hope to stop the tears from flooding her eyes. If she had not already been in love with Noel de Servian, she would have lost her heart completely over the way he cradled her daughter. He granted her child the one thing long denied Annis―her name.
Mayhap wishes at Yuletide did come true when they were brought by a magical man named Noel.