Chapter Two
When the winter wind howls and blows,
’tis the Cailleach knocking at the door...
—Old Scots Lore
Skena stood trembling, from the cold, aye, but more so from dread. With the specter of famine looming across the land, she feared wolves would soon be a threat they would face. Foolishly, she had hoped the menace would not come this early in the season. Swallowing to moisten the dryness in her mouth, she watched the feral eyes narrow on her, judging how much a threat she presented holding the sword. Plainly, she posed nary a concern to the creature. Shoulders lowered, teeth bared, he edged forward, a low growl of intent rising deep in his throat. The animal scented her fear. Her weakness only emboldened him.
Keeping her attention on the black wolf, her eyes quickly scanned to see if there were others coming up behind him or circling around. Where you found one, usually there lurked a small pack. Her luck holding, thus far no other pairs of bright eyes appeared; no dark forms skulked through the unmoving undergrowth around the dense pine trees.
“Oh, please let him be a lone wolf,” she offered her wish to the Auld Ones, before whispering dark words to weave a Charm of Protection, drawing upon what little powers she possessed to sustain her through this ordeal.
Not a small woman, her Ogilvie blood showed in her tall body and strong bones. Even so, to hold the heavy broadsword—which took years for a man to master—was tiring. Her arms vibrated; tremors wracked her muscles. A mix of terror and cold. The winter storm slowly leached all the strength from her body. She fought against the quaking, still the sword wobbled in her grip.
Baring his fangs, the wolf crept slowly forward, more daring with each step. Skena had trouble keeping her vision clear. Falling flakes and those kicked up by the spindrift continued to stick to her long lashes, adding moisture to the tears she valiantly labored to hold at bay. It was vital to see the wolf when he leapt, in order to time her swing. She sucked in a hard breath of terror. The creature was so much bigger than she expected!
“Off with you, evil foal-chû. You shall no’ be making a meal of this warrior or me.” She spoke false courage, hoping the sound of her voice might frighten him into backing off. Instead, his body coiled, preparing to spring.
So intent upon the wolf, Skena hopped slightly when long arms enclosed about her. Startled, and yet unwilling to take her eyes off the black creature, it was several heartbeats before she comprehended the stranger had awakened and was on his feet. Suddenly, in his strong embrace, she was not so scared.
“Be still, my lady. I lend my strength to your swing.” The warrior’s cold hands closed over hers. He leaned against her back; his powerful muscles caused her shaking to lessen.
Skena had little chance for the details of his nearness to filter through her thoughts, for with a feral snarl, the wolf leapt at them. Frozen in terror, she was unable to move, yet she felt the warrior wielding the sword. Bared teeth snapped close to her throat. She cried out and then flinched when the great blade caught the beast in the neck. Blood splattered across her clothing and her face. Its heat shocked her. Numb with the horror, she stared at the animal writhing on the ground. In the gathering darkness, the pooling blood oddly appeared black upon the pristine snow. The coppery smell set her stomach to roiling; revolted, she choked back rising nausea. Her grip slackened about the hilt.
The knight’s fingers closed tighter around hers. “Nay, my lady, never leave a wounded animal alive...sometimes, not even a man. ’Tis when they are most dangerous. They risk all, for they have naught to lose.”
Standing before the wolf, he helped her raise the sword at an angle and plunge it into the animal’s chest. The beast jerked thrice. Then, no more. With a low, uttered groan, the warrior dropped his hands from the sword.
Her arms burning from the strain, Skena was unable to hold the blade tip up. It thumped to the ground. Still, she kept her grip about the hilt. There might yet be more wolves to come; the scent of blood now on the wind would lure them. Skena turned to see the stranger reel on unsteady legs and then go down on his knees.
Grasping the sword with her right hand, she caught his upper arm with her left to steady him. “Och, Sir Knight. Please, do no’ fall in the snow. It saps your body of vital heat. Help comes soon. We must remain vigilant. The blood scent on the wind summons others.”
He gave a faint nod of understanding, and then glanced up at her. Flakes hit his comely face, so pale from the cold. “Who…are you, demoiselle?” He reached up with a shaky hand and tenderly tried to swipe the splatters of blood from her cheek.
“Skena of Craigendan.” Despite the residual terror and the chill wracking her body, a fleeting smile curved her lips as she stared into his silvery eyes. So rare, there was a streak, almost a ring, around the inner eye, but in the fading light she could not tell what shade it was.
“Craigendan? I am...near the fortress then?” He clearly struggled to remain in his thoughts. “I am lost...only to be found.” He gave a faint laugh.
She was concerned. He was not shivering. People out in the cold shivered. Left in that condition too long they shuddered uncontrollably. If they stayed unwarmed beyond that, the quaking stopped as they edged toward the threat of death. That he was confused, lacked good muscle control, and did not tremble scared her.
Still dazed by killing the wolf, she tried to sound calm. “No’ far from Dun Craigendan.”
“Far for me, I fear. I sought the passes...Glen Shane...” His words trailed off as his eyelids lowered.
Skena gave him a shake. “Stay awake. Fight it. Talk to me. You hunt for the passes of Glen Shane? Nay stranger can find the passes. They be warded by an ancient spelling to keep outsiders away.”
“Challon...” The name was barely audible. Another jerk from her saw his head snap up.
“You ken the Lord Challon?” she asked, with a touch of fear.
“Lady Skena...you are beautiful...so...beau―” He gave her a faint smile, but then it fell from his lips as he stopped speaking. Limp, he just rolled to the side.
“Beautiful, indeed,” she scoffed. Struggling to pull him upright, she lost her grasp as he dropped back to his side again. “Bloody man be daft. Soaking, splashed with blood, and the amadán thinks me beautiful.”
The weight of his muscular body was too much for her to control. Frowning at how weak a woman was compared to a man, she leaned the sword’s hilt against his chest where she could snatch it up quickly if need, and then set to straighten his poor legs. As she finished, she heard noises off in the distance in the direction of Craigendan. Soon, she spotted flickers of torches through the trees.
Upon his brown jennet, Andrew came first, leading the way for the others. “See, Màthair, I fetched them.”
She wanted to give her son a hug for his bravery, yet did not want to get blood on him. “You did well, Andrew. I be most proud of you.” Her teeth chattered so; it was hard to speak the words.
“My lady!” Galen called in concern, as he halted the cart. Climbing down, his ancient eyes took in her blood-splattered condition, the wolf and the prostrate warrior. “You all right?”
“Aye.” Skena nodded, but was too drained to say more.
“Here, wrap this around you,” he said, flinging another mantle about her shoulders. “Jenna sent you one, fearing you would be soaked. Good thing, eh? You scatty female, you risk your death. You should no’ be so foolish. You ken all of Craigendan depends upon you.”
“Galen, cease fashing. We needs must be away from this place.” Skena shivered, her eyes glancing about to make certain no wolves lurked in the low-hanging tree limbs.
“Oh, aye. And so we shall, afore the blood scent from that one lures his brethren. Warming stones and furs be in the cart. Snap to, lads!” he barked to Kenneth and Owen―boys barely four summers older than Andrew.
They hopped from the back of the cart and went to the fallen warrior. They were the nearest thing to men at Craigendan, aside from Galen, who was four score if he was a day. Between the four of them they managed to lift the knight off the ground and into the straw-filled cart. The man screamed out as they placed him on his back, which set him to cursing in a tongue seldom heard to her.
“Norman.” Galen’s brow crinkled, looking to her. His face was etched with foreboding. “Lass, what sends one of the mighty leopard’s knights all the way out here in this snowstorm? Bodes ill, mark words. Aught connected to Edward Longshanks only brings ravens and sorrow.”
Skena saw fear reflected in the man’s dark eyes. “No time to fret, old friend. Let us fetch him back to Craigendan. He has stopped shivering. That alarms me.”
“Mayhap he will no’ live,” the old man spoke, hope lacing his words.
“He will live,” she countered, with determination she failed to fathom. She asked, “Is there a chance to send to Glen Shane to bid Auld Bessa or Oonanne to Craigendan?”
His head gave a faint shake. “No’ in this, lass. You ken the Three Wise Ones of the Wood come when they are needed. But they grow old, their days short on this earth. To travel that distance in this storm would be too much to ask.”
Skena grimaced, knowing her curing skills were not as strong as the three healers who cared for all in Glen Shane and beyond. Ignoring that apprehension, she placed the long sword by the warrior’s side, noticing he had lapsed into a dark state of mind. Accepting Galen’s hand, she hefted herself into the back of the wagon. Taking the heated stones from the sack, she placed them alongside the still man, and then covered him with three bearskins.
“Take that sack and collect the wolf,” Skena ordered, tossing the burel bag to Galen. When everyone simply stared at her like she was mad, she snapped, “Do it! ’Tis meat.”
Andrew wrinkled up his nose. “I do no’ want to eat wolf meat, Màthair.”
Ignoring her son’s sour face, she tucked the edge of a bearskin around the man’s large body. She felt such sorrow that she even considered it, but her people were hungry. There was a time to put pride aside and fight for survival. “Meat be meat. In stew you will no’ ken the difference.”
♦◊♦
As the cart pulled into the bailey, Skena hopped down from the bed of straw. They gently rolled the tall warrior onto a blanket to keep from jolting him about. Auld Bessa had warned her that a person left out in the cold too long might suffer heart seizures if they were bumped or handled too roughly.
“Each of you—take a firm grip on a corner of the plaide. We lift him at the same time. Slowly. No sudden jerks,” she instructed.
Everyone in the fortress was in a pother, running up and asking questions. They wanted to ken who the stranger was and what was he doing on the road to Craigendan. A Norman knight on their lands raised dire concerns in all minds. Still, Skena spared no time to fash over possible answers and what import they might hold for the future. Too worn down by the ordeal of looking for the children, and then fighting the wolf, those disquiets would have to wait until the morrow. For the nonce, there were a score of things to be done if they were to save this man’s life.
“Where do we put him, Skena?” Galen asked.
She knew there was only one place. “Take him to the lord’s chamber.”
“My lady―” Galen began crossly.
Skena cut him off, letting the elderly servant know she brooked no opposition. “’Tis hardly the time to fret over such trifles. He is a big man and should have room. With no healer, his care falls to me. I need him where I can tend to him, and require a fireplace nearby. It will be a long night of the soul, mayhap several, ’til he rests safely out of harm’s embrace.”
Galen eyed her with misgiving, but held his tongue as, they started up the winding stairs. Andrew ran ahead, opening the door to the large chamber, and then hurriedly pulled the covers back on the feather mattress.
“Place him down—carefully. Do no’ jar him,” she said, anxious. Once that was done, she hugged Andrew and kissed his forehead. “Run along to Nessa. I want you and your sister to have a warm bath and be full of hot broth. Then to bed, mind. I will come kiss you day’s end when I be free.”
Nessa came in to poke the fire, adding more peat bricks to raise the heat in the large chamber. “Who be this man, my lady?”
“That remains a question unanswered at this point. Nessa, take Andrew and Annis. Bathe them in warm water. Keep adding hot water as it cools to make sure they are unburned by the cold. Fill them with hot broth, and then tuck them up together with warming stones. Stay with them this night, please,” Skena asked.
“Aye, my lady. See to the man. I will keep watch over your lambs.” The nursemaid took Andrew by the shoulder and turned him toward the door. “My nosy lad, you want to see if the warrior be all right. Ne’er fear, young lordling, your mama will fetch him ’round. Come, you must do as your màthair bade.”
“He be my warrior. I wished for him, and he came.” Andrew dragged his feet, plainly wanting to stay. “The Kelpie fetched him for me.”
“Oh, aye, and you can tell him all about how he belongs to you―on the morrow.”
Nessa grabbed him by the sleeve of his sark and pulled him from the room.
Skena sat on the edge of the huge bed, and then unbuckled the warrior’s belt and cross strap of the baldric. Fortunately, he wore soft leathern hose, well treated with oil, so they were supple and repelled water. That was a blessing. The oiled leather had turned away the snow, preventing the wetness from reaching the flesh of his legs. Galen could not work the frozen knots on the cross-laced boots; taking out his knife, he cut the lacings.
“Gently, Galen. Do no’ jostle him,” she cautioned again.
The white-haired man glared at her. “Lass, I have been carin’ for souls who felt the bite of exposure long before your lady màthair were e’en born. I ken we needs must keep him peaceful.”
Jenna, her maidservant, came in carrying a stack of linens. “I ordered the big tub fetched. Cook has plenty of water on the fire. Be there aught else I should do, my lady?”
Skena nodded. “Aye, go to the stillroom and fetch my herb box. I needs must make a tansy to ease his pains that comes with the warming. Also, bring the large pot of healing ointment that Auld Bessa prepared for us back in the summer.”
“Aye, my lady,” Jenna nodded before scurrying off.
Galen examined the man’s bare feet for cold-burn. “Bluish, but no’ bad. He be cold inside more than out, methinks. The flesh will be fine with care. His clothing served him well, protected him from the worst of the cold. His boots, like those hose, are well oiled, thus they turned away the wet. The children came upon him before he had been out there too long. Luck for him.” He added under his breath, “Mayhap no’ luck for Craigendan, eh?”
“By the Lady’s blessing he lives. Remember that. Let us get him out of the mail and clothing.” Skena worked in hurried silence, unlacing the sides of the dark green surcoat. Galen and Owen raised him to a sitting position to allow her to pull off the fine raiment. Her cold fingers had a hard time unbuckling the arming-points of the metal hauberk underneath, so Owen did it for her. “Help me turn him to his side. Methinks rolling off those hose would be easier in that way.”
Skena gasped as she peeled the leather over his hips. “By fires of Bel, what harmed has befallen this man? This did no’ come from his tumble from the horse, nor naught to do with the cold.”
A palm-size, reddish discoloration on his right side curved around his lower back. She sucked in a harsh breath, fearing it was infected. In the dim candlelight she could not see clearly, but the patch of skin was crimson and puffy, why he cried out when they had placed him on his back in the wagon. She reached out and gingerly pressed the flesh with her fingertips. The marks remained white. Not a good sign. As she repeated the action, the knight moaned and started to awaken.
Skena was glad he roused; that he had remained unawake troubled her. Yet, in the same breath, she hoped his mind would stay cosseted in blackness whilst they finished the warming. She knew it would be painful as the skin and blood reacted to the warm water. Since the process had to be done slowly to protect his heart, she needed him as peaceful as possible.
Upon Jenna’s return, Skena told Galen, “Help him sit whilst I mix the tansy to relieve his mind of the coming pains.”
Hurrying to the table near the fireplace, she opened the large wooden box and quickly measured out pinches of St. John's Wort, verbena, skullcap, valerian, chamomile and crampbark into the wooden bowl, and ground them with the pestle. The worts would work to relax the body and stop muscles from knotting. The ointment she had Jenna fetch also contained most of these in the special salve. It would ease his surface distress. Mixing the finely ground powder with water in a cup until dissolved, she then carried it to the bed.
“Sir Knight, please drink.” She lifted the cup to his sensual lips, which were no longer tinged blue. Again, she was struck by just how handsome he was―nay, the man was beautiful!
The lids lifted on his eyes; their power hit her full force. Their paleness was like liquid silver. That alone would be striking enough, but around the dark inner circle was a ring of amber. Never had she seen eyes such as his, so lovely she could lose herself in their shimmering depths. She had seen plenty of grey eyes before; oft they looked dull or flat. None had the special brilliance as this man’s. The outer edge of the paleness had another ring, this time of black, which only made them stand out. Arresting.
Razors to her soul.
Skena could not think, could hardly breathe. She stood enthralled by the stranger’s spellbinding eyes. They were sleepy, softening their effect. Even so, a shiver slithered up her spine as she considered how it would be to see them alert, focused.
See the fires of hunger burn in them for her.
“Skena, I fetched broth,” Muriel said, as she shuffled into the room. The words broke the enchantment that held Skena frozen. The elderly woman put the small metal pot on the stand by the bed. “Enough for you both. Brought two spoons. Figure you will get more into him if you feed him, lass.”
“Thank you, Muriel. Can you and Jenna please set more stones to heating? Then, change the covers to dry once we move him? See the bed is as warm as we can get it.”
After taking a swallow, the knight scowled and pushed the cup away. “What foul poison do you feed me?” he grumbled.
“Oh, aye, tastes like it was brewed with stump water, no doubt. Even so, you needs must choke it down, my braw warrior. Quickly.”
He looked up at her, and then offered her a lopsided smile. “Skena?”
“Aye, ’tis my name. You remembered.” On impulse she reached out and brushed the three damp curls back from his high forehead. “And what be your name, Sasunnach?”
“Noel…de Servian,” he managed to get out before a shiver wracked his body. His eyelids fluttered, half-closing. She could see gooseflesh on his skin. Not good, still it was better than his body ignoring the cold. The words were slurred as though he had a hard time concentrating. “I am at Glenrogha? Where is Brishen…my horse?”
“Leave it to a man to fash about his bloody horse. Your mighty steed is fine, well-fed and safe within my stable. Come, drink up, and I will answer all your questions.” She aided him in turning up the cup to drink the dark liquid. “Good. You can wash the horrid taste down with a wee bit of broth. It helps warm your blood as well.”
She nearly jumped when he placed his arm about her back to help steady himself, and then scooted to the edge of the bed. It brought her in close contact with him, which, in turn, sent her heart to rocking. Well, it was not every day a man as bare as a newborn babe held onto her! And never one so pretty, so perfectly formed. That sort of excitement was not good for her, she knew. Chilled, too, she had to be careful about sudden jolts to her heart ’til she was warm once more. Forcing deep breaths, she tried to slow its pace. Her silly heart failed to pay heed. Her reaction to him was upsetting, frightening. No man had ever before caused such a flutter inside her, forced it to be hard to draw air.
And she paid for it. The increased pounding set her blood to speed up. Thick from being cold, it ached, coursing through her. Noticing he had not finished everything in the cup, she picked it up and drank the dregs. Pain was from the exposure, yes, but more so because of the effect he had upon her body.
“My lady, you hurt?” Muriel touched her right arm in concern.
Not capable of guising her feelings, Skena failed to meet her old nurse’s stare. The woman held the power to discern her thoughts only too well. “Some. Being in the cold slowed my blood. The warming always be distressful. Like when you sit on your foot too long and try to stand.”
“Drink some broth, lass. You needs must keep from taking ill,” Muriel whispered the warning. “This warrior needs all your skills to save him. Auld Bessa taught you much, but it will take your strength to see him through this.”
“I will drink it, soon. He needs it more.” Skena fed him a spoonful of the hot broth. Then a second. So caught in the web of magic spun from his ensorcelling gaze, she was barely aware of Owen and Kenneth dragging in the wooden tub. De Servian’s glimmering eyes watched her every move, her every reaction to him. By the fifth spoonful, the potion’s effect was starting to hit his mind. She quickly gave him a bit more liquid, while they filled the tub. “Make sure the water be only warm. ’Tis too distressing to stand it hot at the start. Howbeit, put cloths into a pan and soak them with hot water. I needs must put those on his neck and chest to heat the heart first.”
Noel de Servian appeared alert, but Skena kenned that was oft deceiving. Auld Bessa spake how men too long out in the ice would run around, and actually yanked off their clothing, their minds too numb to know the difference between hot and freezing. The blue tinge was leaving his lips, fingers and ears. Still, the shivering was growing intense. Clearly, his muscles were not responding. His movements were slow, labored, as he tried to push the spoon away. He frowned at his hand as if not understanding why it failed to respond as he wanted.
“Skena?” he asked again, puzzled. “Where am I?”
“At Craigendan. You told me you were heading to Glenrogha, but became lost in the snowstorm.” She hoped if he talked he might fight the lethargy.
“Challon...I sought him,” he finally said.
She nodded. “You spake that was your aim. When the storm lessens and be no’ dangerous, I will send word to Glenrogha, let the Earl Challon ken you be at Craigendan and safe.”
“At Craigendan?” He tried to stand, so she jumped to support him by putting her arms around his waist.
Muriel clucked her tongue, and rushed to wrap a sheet about his hips. “You are a braw and bonnie lad, Sir Noel, but my old heart cannot take all your fine splendor at once.”
Bemused, he watched the elderly lady tuck the fabric in at his waist, plainly unaware he had been without any clothing. While that brought a fleeting smile to Skena, it showed how the storm still had him in its grip. She needed to get him into the tub without delay.
“Can you walk, Sir Noel? We have a warm bath prepared for you.” She gave a nod to Galen, who took the knight’s arm and wrapped it about his neck to help prop up the warrior.
De Servian’s steps were uncontrolled, but they finally got him to the tub, and with a little maneuvering, into the warm water. It seemed to sap his remaining strength, so she permitted him to lean against the side of the tub and rest.
“Galen, you and the lads go beek yourselves by fireside. I will call you again if I need help getting him from the tub. I do no’ think I will. He will regain strength as he shakes the cold from his flesh,” she assured him. Recalling it was her night to keep watch on the wall, she fussed, “Bel’s fire!”
Galen turned at her exclamation. “My lady, what troubles you?”
“This night be my turn to hold watch upon the―” she started to explain only to have her retainer cut her off.
“Mind your tongue, Skena.” His eyes jerked to the warrior and then back to her with a stern glare, silently admonishing her that their secrets were not for the man’s ears. “Fash no’, on this night few souls be daft enough to venture out in this stour. No’ even a bloody Campbell wouldst be so mooncalf to take the risk. One less doing their duty will matter little. You stay. You be needed here—if your mind be fixed upon saving this knight of King Edward. Though I wouldst bend your ear on the wisdom of that path, I have doubt you would heed my words.”
“You be right, my friend. Even a Campbell wouldst no’ go aroaming in this white, and aye, right again, I shall hear no discourse on withholding treatment that saves this man’s life.” She exhaled her trepidation. “I will deal with consequences of his coming soon. Too soon, I fear.”
Jenna and Muriel finished changing the bed and then wadded up the damp bedclothes. Her maidservant glanced to the bowl by the bed and back to Skena. “You have no’ touched the broth, lass. It cools,” she chided. “I will fetch you some more.”
“You have my thanks, Jenna, but I have no hunger this eve,” Skena replied, giving her a smile.
Jenna placed her fists on her hips and frowned. “Do no’ try to pull the wool over these eyes, Skena MacIain. I ken you miss supper to see others have a full belly these past sennights. Stop that. We need you. Many depend upon you, lass. You require your strength to stay healthy and get through this winter. So, you will be eating your supper, or I will get Galen and Owen to pin you to the table whilst I pour it down your gullet.”
“Sorry. I just worry so much it dulls my appetite.” Skena gave Jenna’s arm a squeeze to let the woman know she appreciated the fussing over her. She did not want Jenna to know how deeply terrified she was about this coming winter.
Jenna frowned, but gave a nod of understanding and sympathy.
Muriel held back, hesitating, but finally stepped closer, as Jenna closed the door. “Skena, did you see the man’s side?”
Skena gave a stiff nod. Taking the salve, she smeared it thickly across his neck and shoulders. “I meant to give it a closer look.”
“My eyes are no’ as sharp as they used to be, but I have seen many a man damaged in battle. That wound is no’ too old. He took a dirk or mayhap a sword to his side, likely through the seam of his mail shirt. I wouldst say not a year gone, either.” Muriel appeared anxious.
Skena’s movements stilled. Not a year gone? Dunbar? Or worse, Berwick? She did not know which would make her sicker. That she now worked to save an Englishman’s life, when he likely had been killing her countrymen just months before, caused her empty stomach to roll.
“My fear, the wound be tainted. It was no’ made pure before they allowed it to heal over. Something now inflames it. Oft when a man’s skin be pierced, the weapon embeds small pieces of fabric or mail in the flesh. Injuries must be made clean before they allow the skin to seal. We needs must make a poultice, draw the impurity to the surface and then lance it. It will only grow worse and likely poison his blood. He will sicken otherwise. Mayhap die.”
Skena knew the old woman spoke the truth. “Let us see if he makes it through this ordeal. Come morn, we can examine his side and what needs to be done. Go eat your meal.”
“Do no’ leave it long. He does no’ have time. I shall come back to see if you need help getting him to bed.” Muriel smiled and touched Skena’s shoulder for reassurance. “Though, seeing as he be a braw and bonnie lad, I doubt any woman would have trouble getting him in her bed.”
Skena’s insides twisted at the thought of her knight being in the bed of another woman. Muriel spoke truth, but it was not one she wished to face. ’Twas most odd. She was jealous. Silly nonsense. She did not even know this man. He was not her knight.
A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed back the hard pain.