Chapter Twenty-One
Twists and turns, riddles and rhymes...
I hath seen what you hath not.
—Iain Montgomerie Ogilvie
Noel was not sure he drew a breath until he put his hand to Skena’s neck and felt the beat. Faint...so faint he almost feared he imagined it. When he located the pulsing, slow though steady, he gasped in the air denied him. Curling her limp body to his chest, he rocked Skena, willing her to awaken. His heart felt as if a knife were lodged in it. Not since that fateful morning when the servants had carried in his mother’s lifeless body had he tasted such deep sorrow.
Muriel gasped, “Och, by the Lady!” and then tried to come down the stairs.
“Nay! Stay,” Noel objected, fearing the frail woman would fall. “I shall carry her up. Just hold the torch high so I may have as much light as possible.
“Noel?” came the weak whisper against his chest.
He laughed, trying to shake the panic that had seized his soul. “Ah, so I am back to being Noel? Silly woman, once I can breathe again I might beat you for scaring me. I am not a young man, remember? Shocks to my heart are not a good turn.”
Skena reached up and cupped his chin. “You be young and beautiful...and methinks just a bit vain. You want me to tell you these things.”
“Oh, aye, I am an overweening peacock, strutting my fancy plumage to catch your eye. I am still going to beat you.” Noel gave her the toothless threat, closing his eyes as he held her tightly to him. Fear of how close he came to losing her thrummed in his blood.
She managed a small laugh. “But first, will you kiss me?”
“Reward you for falling down the stairs to the cellars? Sorry, no kisses for scatty wenches who try to break their necks,” he grumbled, pushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.
“I did no’ fall.” Arms and legs akimbo, Skena tried to find purchase to stand.
Noel wanted to carry her up the stairs, but she seemed determined to get to her feet. He finally helped her. “Not fall? Then pray, how did you end up at the bottom of the steps? Fly?”
Skena finally looked around her and frowned. “How did I get down here?”
“Love, you had a fall―”
“I did no’ fall,” she stated with vehemence, then winced. She put her hand to the side of her head feeling a lump. “Och. What a goose egg.”
Noel nodded in sympathy. “’Tis what happens when you go clanging about and give yourself a knock.”
“I did no’ give myself a knock. Someone else did.” She glared, witnessing the doubt upon his face.
“What mean you―that someone else did?” he asked, fearing her thoughts were muddled by hitting her head.
Skena bared her teeth at him. “Someone―else―as in, no’ me.”
Noel took her upper arm firmly. “A bump to the skull oft scatters the mind. Let us get you abovestairs and ascertain if you are all right. Then, you may tell me about your adventure in flying.”
“I am no’ hurt, Noel, nor did I take a head-first tumble down these bloody stairs. I went into the washing area, and someone dropped a burel sack over my head. Then, I think they flung me against the wall. How I got from there to the cellars I have no notion. I surrendered to blackness.”
Noel’s brows lifted in skepticism, but Skena’s expression only grew more resolute. Beginning to believe her, he looked around for the sack. No empty ones were about, the light only touching barrels and a few sacks that were full sitting atop them. “Where is the bag?”
“Och, go ahead and do no’ have faith in my word. I ken what I ken, Noel de Servian.” She started to stomp up the steps, but he would not let go, forcing her to slow her pace to match his own.
At the top of the staircase Muriel waited, concern clear in her lovely eyes. “Ah, lass, be you unharmed?”
Skena kissed the old woman’s cheek. “Aye. I sport an egg on my pate and I shall have a proper ache in my skull come morn. Other than that, I fare well enough.”
“What happened?” Muriel pressed, as she closed the door to the root cellar behind them.
“Ask de Servian. He seems the one with all the answers.” Skena glanced down the long hallway, her face clouding. “I was on the way to the stillroom to fetch juniper boughs for Elspeth, then I―” She stopped speaking and glanced up at Noel, her face confused.
“You did what, Skena?”
She swallowed hard, but went ahead, despite clearly expecting his reaction. “I thought I saw Angus…and followed him.”
Noel straightened his spine, fearing she had injured herself more than she cared to admit. He reached out intent on taking her into his arms to carry her to the lord’s chamber, only she jerked away from him.
“Save that pitying expression, Lord de Servian,” she snapped.
He attempted to make light of the tense situation, concerned upsetting her would only aggravate her state. “Sigh...I am no longer Noel, once again.”
“Do no’ play folly with my claim.” She stomped down the corridor toward the door of the cleansing room, leaving him to follow in her wake. “I was at the stillroom door and saw a man at the junction. He called my name. I followed. When I reached here, he vanished, so I entered.”
Noel strode into the large chamber, followed by Muriel, both trailing after Skena. She moved to the table where a candle had completely melted onto the tabletop. The wax on the surface was hard.
“A lit candlestick was on the table, the only light when I entered.” Her steps carried her toward the screen in the far corner. “When I failed to espy anyone, I picked up the candle― thinking the only place someone could be in here and remain unseen was behind the screen. As I turned, a sack came down over my head.”
Noel carried the torch closer so they could inspect the floor. Skena knelt on one knee and picked up the small wooden candleholder, she flashed a triumphant smile of told you. Cold wax streaks were across the stone slabs, showing a taper had fallen there whilst still burning.
“The sack was dusty. I remember having trouble breathing. Methinks I sneezed, then it felt like someone hurled me against the wall. Hard.”
Noel found Skena’s injuries distressing enough. Only to see evidence that she had not simply fallen down the steps sent his temper nearly out of control. Someone had deliberately stalked her, dropped a sack over her head, and then slammed her to the wall? One was an accident. The other was someone intent on malice. Then what?—they arranged her at the bottom of the staircase to appear she had tripped? Why? Such dark actions contained no rhyme or reason. Only pure evil.
“You say you followed a man here―” Noel began, only to be cut off.
“Not a man,” she corrected. “I followed...well, I thought it was Angus.”
Noel exhaled in frustration. Angus again. “This is the second time you claim to have seen him.”
She nibbled on the corner of her lip, but finally admitted, “Nay, thrice now.”
“Thrice?” It came out in a near roar, so he moderated the word into a soft question. “Thrice, Skena? When else?”
Skena glanced at Muriel to judge her reaction to the news. “I saw him this morn…at least I thought it was him...when we were presenting you as the new lord. For an instant, he was standing in the far archway in the shadows. He spoke to Dorcas.”
“Ha!” The snort of disgust popped out of Muriel. “Aught to do with that shameless strumpet who calls herself my daughter only bodes ill.”
Noel’s stomach twisted into a knot. He could end Skena’s concerns that Angus was hiding within Craigendan’s walls by giving her the truth―that he had killed Fadden at Dunbar, drove a sword through his body. There was no doubt of the man’s death. Only, if he told her how Fadden died, he might lose the first and last hope of love and happiness ever to come to him. There was no way he could risk saying those words. Someday, he would tell her, when he was assured she could bear his words without turning her heart against him.
“I saw Angus.” Skena waited for a response from Muriel. When the old woman looked sad, Skena turned back to him. “Dorcas spake that he was alive.”
“Lass,” Muriel shook her head sorrowfully. “Ne’er place faith in what comes out of that lying bitch’s mouth. ’Tis ashamed I be that I gave birth to that faithless creature. Better had I strangled her with her natal cord at birth, and saved us all a cartload of hurt and trouble. I watched what she did to you. She always turned a deaf ear to me, laughed at the insult she paid you. If Dorcas spake the moon just rose, I wouldst expect to see the sun on the horizon. She told you evil words to spoil your new happiness, Skena. Naught more. ’Tis eating her alive with jealousy that you might actually find love.”
“I ken that well, Muriel. Matters no’. I did see him. First, on the stairs to the boulevard, when I was going to fight the wolves, again this morn, and just a short time ago in the passageway. He called my name, and kept telling me to come, to hurry.”
Noel pursed his mouth, trying to decide if she held onto Angus’s memory, conjuring his shade because of misguided devotion, or mayhap morsels of guilt at going on with her life. “Skena, Angus is dead. You needs must accept that―”
“Skena!” Galen called from the doorway. “Riders. ’Tis Duncan Comyn.”
After finding Skena, Noel had forgotten about the riders coming to Craigendan. Now, he wished them to Hades. He wanted to take Skena upstairs and cosset her until his fear of losing her finally quieted. Instead, he would be forced to play host to a man he little knew and trusted even less.
“Skena, we brought down two roe. Guillaume and his men will be fetching them back shortly. Emory spotted the Comyn party coming through the draw, so I spurred Brishen back to reach Craigendan before they arrived. Come help me out of the mail and let us see ourselves presentable to welcome our guests.” Noel turned her toward the door.
Muriel clucked her tongue. “Guests? Ha! ’Tis letting a grey fox in with the geese.”
“It will be my extreme pleasure,” Skena laughed, “to present Craigendan’s new lord to The Comyn.”
As the women started down the hallway, Noel allowed his steps to slow. Lightly taking hold of Galen’s arm, he pulled the man to match his slower pace. “Show the Comyn chief into the Great Hall and made comfortable. Since they likely plan to stay the night, they may be escorted to rooms, if they wish. Tell him Skena and I shall be down presently to greet him. Set guards from Challon men to dog their every move. Keep them in the Hall if possible. Once Skena and I arrive, I want you to make a quiet search of every cranny and nook in the whole fortress. No corner spared light. We found evidence of someone living in the pines, about two leagues away from Craigendan. The site has not been used since the new snow fell. I am of a mind a man is sheltering within the fortress...mayhap with Dorcas hiding him. If so, I want him found.”
“Aye, Lord de Servian. It shall be as you wish.” Galen gave him a solemn nod.
Scowling, Noel paused to look back to the cleansing room. He knew Skena had not seen Angus. That much was a certainty. He was coming to fear that the man who had used the woods for shelter had come to Craigendan to hide after the snow started. But why? Who was he? What did he want? These questions seemed magnified in the light that someone had thrown a sack over Skena. He believed Skena after seeing the wax on the floor. Only to what purpose? If he had wished her dead, there had been plenty of time to do the foul deed. Just to torment her, make her doubt her own mind? His suspicions returned to the watcher in the woods. Surely, the unknown man was connected to Skena’s misadventure. Howbeit, had the knave been trying to scare her? Or had the intent been more sinister and something had interrupted the scheme?
From now on, he would be sure Skena was never alone.
♦◊♦
Fighting impatience, Noel stood still while Skena finished fussing with his appearance. Though it rankled a bit, he wore a sark of deep grey and a surcoat the color of the sky at midnight, items sewn by Skena for Fadden’s Yuletide presents. Not entirely happy with wearing articles intended for a man who tried to kill him, he had little choice until his own belongings arrived. Since he wanted to put his best appearance as lord of Craigendan before this Comyn chief, he swallowed the objections when she suggested he change into these raiments.
“Are you sure you are well enough, Skena? Mayhap you should be resting,” he questioned her dismissing the lingering effects from her misadventure.
Skena chuckled softly, the sound sending shivers up his spine. “Those words oddly echo ones I spake to you earlier. eh?”
Putting his hands about her waist, he pulled her slowly closer. “And I should have listened. You were right, I admit.”
Her smile spread, as her brown eyes roved over his face. “I could love a man who be wise enough to admit he was in error.”
He felt the muscles of his face contort into seriousness, the expression driven by a deep hunger. “Could you? Could you really come to love me, Skena?”
She reached up and gently traced the curve of his jaw, her smile fading. “Aye, I could...I do. Had you not been so busy laughing with Lord Glenshane as you left, you would have heard me calling the words after you. ’Tis sudden. And as you said, we are little more than strangers, but there be a rightness that fills my heart when I am with you, Noel de Servian, something I have never felt before.”
Lowering his head, he brushed his lips to Skena’s, tasting her, gently savoring her rare sweetness. His blood surged, the primeval urge to mate roaring through him, overwhelming his thoughts. He wanted to shove her up against the wall, and take her hard and fast, an echo of the dream where he had made love to her. Wanted to drag her to the bed and kiss every inch of her body until he was satisfied she had not been harmed in the odd attack. Forcing those strong desires back, he tried to set her away from him.
Bold wench, she threw her arms about his neck and arched her body against his, deepening the kiss. He smiled against her mouth, knowing she desired him as strongly as he craved her. Howbeit, he had one poaching Scottish chief to deal with, waiting belowstairs for their appearance. Still, he was but a man, and Skena tempted him like none other, so he gave in to her female demand and kissed her with the full passion boiling within him.
A knock at the door caused them to pull apart. Galen pushed his head inside, and arched an eyebrow at them trying to straighten their clothing. “Beg pardon, my lord, my lady, but the bloody Comyn demands his audience immediately, or he threatens to storm up here to assure himself Skena is no’ held hostage and…hmm…being tortured.”
“I give thanks for the timely warning, Galen. Tell this Highlander we are coming.”
The old man nodded, “Aye, my lord.”
Noel held out his arm to the blushing Skena. “Well, my lady, shall we go show the Comyn knave the only one being tortured in this fortress is me?”
She shyly placed her hand on his arm. “I might beg to differ. But aye, let us deal with this aggravation so we can have done with him. The sooner he be away, the better.”
With Skena at his side, Noel felt like a king entering the Great Hall. Whilst he would rather stay abovestairs and give Skena kissing lessons, the male in him relished having this vibrant woman as his betrothed. He watched her with equal measures of pride and hunger.
Her hand squeezed his arm, slowing his steps. “Be careful of this man, Noel. Put trust in naught he says. The Comyns be a changeable lot, cutting their raiments to suit how the political clime blows. They be powerful, controlling vast lands, and own the fealty of many—likely better than half of Scotland. In spite of their humiliating defeat at Dunbar coming under their command, you can bet the remainder of the clan will land on their feet in the way of a cat. Their lesser chiefs now grapple to entrench their power and expand their lands. Though Duncan is chief to a smaller sept, he still holds strong connections to the powerful Earl Buchan. Craigendan be a small holding, hardly worth a second look from a Comyn.
“Howbeit, the position of the land be such that, in the wrong hands, it wouldst become a sword to Julian Challon’s back if an enemy were to seize the position. Precisely what Duncan desires to see happen. He will no’ be happy that you are lord here, now. His brother Phelan was a knave and a liar. When he lied, he could stare you in the eyes and never bat an eyelash. Duncan be cut from cloth of the same weave, but seems to lack the cold, steel spine. When he lies, he canno’ meet your stare. Methinks he must be aware of this, but canno’ stop it. He shields the telling sign by some action―reaching for wine, acting distracted by a serving wench passing, or cutting a piece of food. Misdirections done craftily to cover that he spews untruths through his teeth. Remember this well, for it shall serve you in dealing with him.”
“You have a shrewd ability to judge men. A trait that shall be valuable in our days to come. I heed your words, Skena, but do not fear. I, too, am apt at reading men. Having spent years dealing with Edward’s mercurial moods and his Angevin tempers, I learnt to hear more than mere words, but also what is left unspoken.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it to reassure her.
As he did so, his eyes spotted the man at the trestle table, rising in preparation to greet them. Noel’s movement stilled. Comyn was dark-haired, not too tall, and rather stocky of build. Women would likely call him a handsome man. And he wore a dark beard.
A figure Noel would call hauntingly familiar.
“Noel?” Skena’s head slowly turned in the direction of his stare. “Be aught wrong?”
He gave her a slow grin. Already she was sensing his temperaments. “Nay. All is fine, my love. That is Duncan Comyn, I presume?”
She gave a faint nod. “Have you met him before?”
“I have not held the pleasure.” The way he spoke the word let her know he failed to mean it. “I was merely struck how men in short beards appear much the same.” Noel had a deep suspicion he stared at Angus Fadden’s ghost. “Ah, the answer to one riddle.”