Chapter Twenty
The value of a thing becomes crystal clear,
when you come nearest to losing it.
—John Francis Ogilvie
Noel was loath to admit it, but Skena had been right―he should have stayed at Craigendan and in bed. His back burned in red hot agony. He remained seated upon Brishen, instead of dismounting to investigate the small clearing, fearful of having a rough time getting back in the saddle if he did. The wound throbbed painfully, yet with an ache that bespoke of healing rather than flesh pushing to putrefaction, which he had suffered with for so long.
Swinging his right leg over the pommel in front of him, Guillaume kicked out of his stirrup and then dropped down to both feet from his charger. His steed and Brishen were brothers, nearly identical, pure white horses—presents from Julian five summers past. The lead rein in his hand, Guillaume carefully examined the small niche that nature had formed in the thick trees, looking for telltale signs of who had been living on Craigendan land. A crudely erected shelter, a lean-to made of evergreen limbs, had been nestled between the heavy boughs of two tall pine trees. Scratching through the deep snow, his friend exposed the remains of a fire that had been doused before it burned out.
Lifting a half-charred branch, he held it up for Noel’s inspection, then flashed a look of mislike at the discovery. “Hard to say how long, due to the covering of snow. To hazard a guess―this site was abandoned, but not more than mere days. Mayhap the snow drove him to seek shelter elsewhere?”
Noel gingerly turned in the saddle, searching for other signs that someone had used the tiny clearing for refuge, clues to why anyone would be out here in the dead of winter. Futile effort. The snow had thoroughly blanketed all but recent roe deer tracks. He grimaced from the pain and then asked, “If you were using this as a base, which path would you take from here?”
Guillaume shot him a veiled glance. “You wouldst head out on the trail we came in on. From there it branches in four directions―Gailleann Castle, out on a small isle in the far end of Loch Shane Mohr, Comyn strongholds to the north, Glen Shane, or back to Craigendan.”
“Who holds Gailleann Castle?” Noel inquired, as he watched Guillaume remount his horse.
“Another Ogilvie heiress—though not by name: Caitrin Bannatyne, Baroness Gailleann. The lady is betrothed to Kerian Mackenzie, second son of a powerful Mackenzie chief near Inverness. Folks in Glen Shane speak ’tis a love-match since childhood. He fostered at Gailleann. Child love is vastly different than the emotions twixt a man and woman. Methinks such familiarity oft spoils the passion. And in Mackenzie’s case, he seems a bit―” Guillaume shrugged, reaching for the correct word and clearly failing to find it. “Pale? The pair came before me to give oath, since the isle is part of Lochshane’s honours. I find little comfort in the knowledge he shall be the future baron there.”
Mounting his destrier, they headed back toward the trail to Craigendan. The horses nipped at each other, but then settled in quickly.
“So this pale man—he is your vassal?” Noel reined Brishen alongside so they could finish their discussion.
“In a manner of speaking. The isle belongs to the Lady Caitrin. These Ogilvie heiresses hold lands and titles in their own rights, through the distaff blood of their clan. Until Edward’s crushing of the Scottish army last spring, the females controlled their own fiefs because of some ancient ceremony they call Rite of Line. They speak such women are descended from witches of the old royal bloodline of the Picts. A strange people—titles, rule, lands, all passed through the mother’s blood, not the father’s. Thus, he shall be my vassal, but only as long as he remains betrothed to the baroness. If he cries off the wedding―and no loss for her in my humble opinion―then, the man she marries wouldst become the new baron in his stead. The isle is vital, since it watches the comings and goings of both the Comyns and Campbells. I wouldst prefer someone of a less pretty mien, guarding the far passes at our backs. And speaking of pretty men—did you get to spend some time with Redam or Dare whilst you were in Berwick?”
Noel shrugged, thinking of another Challon half-brother. Darian Challon shared the same father as Julian, Destain and Guillaume, but he had been born of a servant girl, instead of the high-born lady who was Guillaume’s mother. “Darian was about, and what can one say—reckless as ever. He plays a dangerous game of tweaking Edward’s nose over sending Julian away. He might come to regret it if he missteps.”
“And Redam? I fret over him. Always have.” Guillaume’s face reflected that dark concern.
Redam Maignart, the seventh baron of Raoullin, was a soulless killer, a king’s assassin. “Aye, and well you should. He still rides at Edward’s left hand,” Noel answered solemnly, not willing to say more.
Guillaume flashed a grin. “Mayhap we should kidnap our foster brother and hand him over to some Ogilvie woman. Might be what his spirit needs.”
A horn sounded off in the distance, alerting them game was being herded, driven their way. They both drew their bows and notched arrows waiting as the crashing of a large animal sounded through the thick pines. Two big, red roe deer broke free of the trees, jumping high through the clearing. Arrows were loosed, hitting the animals in vital spots, but still they ran on. Spurring their steeds, they followed, keeping on the deer’s blood trail until the animals would finally drop.
Guillaume laughed and then called, “Ah, something besides wolf-meat stew for us this night, my Lord de Servian.”
The jarring chase only increased Noel’s pain, but they ran the deer until one fell, then finally, the other. When his back slammed into the cantle, as Brishen jumped a fallen log, Noel said through gritted teeth, “I should have listened to Skena.”
Guillaume pulled alongside and grabbed Noel’s shoulder to steady him, as they reined the horses to halt. “Sorry for the manhandling, but Lady Skena wouldst have my hide if you fall off your horse. Neither of us wouldst ever hear the end of it.”
Noel pulled in a ragged breath. “We needs must get these beasts dressed before the meat goes off.”
“My lord!” Emory called, riding up from the opposite direction. “Riders come through the lower passes, heading toward Craigendan.”
Guillaume’s face darkened as he dismounted quickly. “If we take time to gut the animals they will reach there before us. Help me tie the roes to the back of the horses. We will have to dress them at the dun.”
“Did you spy the pennon they were flying?” Noel asked of the young man.
Emory shook his blond head. “No standard I could see. Safe wager would be Comyns. The Campbells do not venture from fireside when ’tis cold. Besides,” he looked from his liege and then back to Noel, “’tis well known by all at Craigendan that Duncan Comyn has fixed his eye on the Lady Skena.”
“Over his dead body!” Forgetting the dead deer, Noel set spurs to Brishen’s side, racing back to Craigendan.
“Make way! Make way!” Guillaume called. The squires dropped the roe and jumped aside as Brishen leapt over the other fallen animal. “He is a man in love on a mission!”
♦◊♦
Noel nearly vaulted from the saddle before Brishen stopped. The horse was angry for being run so hard, and nipped at his arm as he passed off the reins to the stable boy. He usually took care of Brishen himself, but he needed to find Skena. “Cool him down, curry him, and then an extra ration of oats. Do not look at me wide-eyed. Supplies will be coming in the next few days. Snap to.”
“Aye, my lord.” The lanky lad nearly hopped in alarm.
Noel was sorry for barking at him, but did not take pause to soften his words. With riders coming, he wanted to be there to greet them as the new lord, especial if it was Duncan Comyn. He wanted to mark his possession of Craigendan and its lady from the first breath. Quite territorial of him, true, but this was his chance at happiness, and he would allow nothing and no one to threaten to take it away.
“Damn back does not pain me quite so much presently. Jealousy seems to take the edge off it.” He chuckled wryly, as he strode toward the fortress.
He fretted, resentment instantly rising. What if Skena had feelings for this man? Mayhap she had thought eventually to wed with him once she put the death of Angus and the mourning behind her. Then, sanity pushed back the savage, unreasoning male animal, and reminded himself how Skena looked at him, how she hungered to touch him. Well, he would soon let her touch all she wanted, which might be half as much as he wanted.
“Skena!” He was barely into the Great Hall when he bellowed her name. All the women setting up the trestle tables paused to stare at him. Mayhap their old lord did not run around yelling for their lady. Well, they best get used to it. He had a feeling he would be calling for Skena―and often. “Where is your lady?”
A lovely young woman did a faint bob before him. “I be Elspeth, Lord de Servian. Skena went to the stillroom to fetch boughs of juniper for a cleansing of the Hall. Some time ago. She never returned.” Her face darkened as she clearly realized Skena had been gone for too long.
“Has anyone else seen her?” He looked around at the curious faces, realizing he was still new to them. While he had been here for days, this morning was the first time most of them had laid eyes upon his countenance. They were unsure of how to treat him, or what sort of lord he would be to deal with.
The old lady who had helped treat him shuffled forward with the aid of a cane. “Skena went to the stillroom just after you left. Never came back. Come, I show you the way.”
Noel was not without compassion for the woman’s afflictions of age, but a niggling of unease made him want to run instead of follow in her slow steps. The disquiet clamored louder when they found the stillroom was locked. “Wouldst she bolt it from inside?”
“On occasion she has been kenned to do so. Her bolt-hole when troubles pressed in on her.” Muriel raised her hand to knock, but Noel saw her twisted fingers, and instead rapped on the wood before she could use her poor knuckles.
“Skena?” He waited to hear if there was a shuffling inside in response. Only silence. He rapped again, almost sensing Skena was not in there. “You failed to see her return?”
“Nay. Spotted her go down this passageway. Then…” Her eyes grew wide in concern.
“What?”
“Mayhap naught. Ella came into the Hall from this direction. Thought it passin’ odd she wouldst even be in this area of the dun.” Muriel’s grip on her cane tightened until the fingers, malformed by age, whitened.
“What is at the end of the corridor?” Noel looked around for another path Skena might have taken. The hallway seemed the only option. Reaching up he removed the torch from the sconce.
“Garderobes. A bathing area for the soldiers after they work out on the lists. Outer tunnel doors for the fortress―to fetch in meat, goods and supplies for the kitchen. Another leading down into the bowels of Craigendan where food stuffs be stored,” she answered, trailing after him. “Do no’ ken why she wouldst go this way.”
Noel paused to light a torch at the corner, and then again, another one halfway down the narrowing, stone corridor. He first went into the room set aside for the soldiers to wash down after training in the lists. There was not much to be seen―two tubs, a wooden screen, and behind it, a huge wood trough where they could urinate. The trough sent the liquid outside where it would be collected and used in the processing of dyes. Sighing, he backtracked as there was nowhere else to go.
Appearing upset, Muriel came toward him. “She ain’t in the garderobe.”
“Wouldst she have reason to go down to the below level where the foods are stored?” Noel asked. Alarm setting hard in the pit of his stomach, he did not wait for her reply, but rushed down to the door and jerked it open. The cavernous belly of the fortress hungrily swallowed the light to where it only cast its yellow glow partially down the plank steps. That sense of something not right crawled up his spine, pushing him to descend the stairs. Halfway down, the flicker of flame spilled to the bottom.
“Bloody hell!” He passed the torch to Muriel, and then he rushed downward on the remaining steps.
Skena lay at the bottom, pale and unmoving. He pulled her onto his lap, fighting back the howl of madness that threatened to erupt from his throat.