Chapter Twenty-Two
Lies and deceit come wrapped in sinister shadows,
but be banished by the golden rays of truth.
—John Francis Ogilvie
Some men provoked an instant trust within Noel. Others slowly earned his faith. A few did exactly the opposite. Without them saying the first word, some primeval instinct would set him to despising them. In counting Duncan Comyn in the latter group, Noel experienced no hesitation. Oh, he recognized that he was already hardened against finding favor toward the man. Two reasons. First, his brother, Phelan, had led men to ambush Damian and Julian back in August, and died in the fool’s effort. And, more pressing at this instant, was the second―the Scotsman coveted Skena. Jealousy flared as Comyn’s dark eyes went to Skena, roving over her, coveting her in a hungry fashion that caused Noel to recall the wolves they had slain. When the man’s stare shifted to tally an opinion of the new lord of Craigendan, Noel stared back in veiled hatred for this man of Clan Comyn.
“So be it,” Noel muttered under his breath.
In the manner of a dear friend, Duncan came forward, holding out his hand for Skena to take. She did not accept it, instead curled her fingers around Noel’s upper arm, and then leaned closer against his side. With a cool distance, she merely offered Comyn a faint incline of her head. The muscles in the man’s jaw flexed at her response.
Comyn’s hand finally dropped, but steeled determination revealed no other reaction. “My lady, I came as soon as it was safe to travel―”
“’Tis kind of you to be concerned about Craigendan’s well-being.” Noel deliberately cut him off, taking control of their meeting. “Rather comforting to learn our neighbors are of such a caring nature. I am Noel de Servian, new baron of Craigendan. I do not believe I ever saw you at the English Court. Not even in Berwick this August past. Your name is not on the Roll.” The few words made it clear Noel knew Comyn had not bent knee to Edward.
“At the time of Parliament, I was no land holder, thus never called to sign the Roll or give oaths before Longshanks.” Comyn met Noel’s direct stare, even offered a faint smile, skirting around who his brother had been and why he only recently became a land holder. “So the mighty King Edward sends yet another of his pet dragons north to lay claim to a piece of Scotland? Though not a Challon by blood, just as true, eh?”
“A fair adjudging. I count myself most fortunate to have been raised with the Challon men,” Noel answered, not rankled. “That closeness not unlike your clans here.”
Duncan’s eyes swung to Skena, lingered, and then finally back to Noel. “Ah, then we already find a commonality, Sir Noel.”
Noel wanted to ram the word commonality down the Scotsman’s throat, but was saved from the precipitous move, by Guillaume rushing in.
“Beg pardon, Noel, Skena. I was delayed in handling the matter on all our minds.” Guillaume Challon turned his attention to the newcomer. “Fair met, stranger. I do not believe we have met before. I am Guillaume Challon, Baron Lochshane. My brother is Julian Challon—the Black Dragon.” His friend made a point of not extending his hand to the other man.
“Guillaume, this is Duncan Comyn—his brother, I believe, was a passing acquaintance of Julian’s and Damian’s.” Noel said dryly, waiting to see how this played out.
Guillaume’s expression altered little other than a lifting of his brows. “You mean his late brother, do you not? My felicitations upon you rising to chieftain of your clan at his demise.”
“My brother and I were ne’er close. We were fostered separately,” Meeting their direct stares, Duncan Comyn replied with a calm, offhanded air.
“Lady Fate seems to have smiled upon you more than once,” Guillaume commented, with just a dram of malice in his tone.
Comyn agreed, “So it wouldst seem.”
Turning his attention back to Skena, Noel led her to the lady’s chair. After he seated her, he took his place to her right. He smiled when Guillaume deftly slid into the place to Skena’s left, preventing Comyn from sitting there. The Highlander recognized the maneuver for what it was, glared at the taller man, then grudgingly accepted a seat on Noel’s other side.
“Pleased I am to know the tracks are passable. That means I can safely send for the priest at Glen Shane, permitting Skena and I to wed without further delay.” Noel wasted no time in declaring his claim.
“Wed?” Duncan Comyn jumped to his feet, nearly knocking his chair backward. His stare fixed over Noel’s head to Skena. A flash of calculation filled his eyes, which turned bitter cold. “Word of this event had no’ reached my ears, Skena.”
Noel lifted Skena’s hand and placed kiss on the back of it. “Gossip tends to travel fast, but not in deep winter, I suppose.”
“Has Skena suddenly been struck dumb that she canno’ speak for herself?” Irritation apparent, Comyn’s glare shifted to focus on Noel.
“Nay, Skena has no’ been struck mute.” She laughed. “Thus far, there has been little calling for me to say aught. For your peace of mind, aye, I agreed to wed with Lord de Servian as soon as possible.”
“You simply accept the will of Longshanks without a fight?” Comyn’s derisive tone and words branded her a coward. His eyes shifted to the servant, just pouring wine into the goblet before him. Snatching up the cup, he drained it without stopping, as if washing a foul taste from his mouth.
Skena threw the insult back into Comyn’s face. “I be unsure why you assume I—a lowly maid—should fight the mighty leopard when so many of my countrymen fail to act in the same vein. In this matter—there was no command from Edward Plantagenet. ’Tis my will. I wish this marriage with my whole heart.”
At her forthright statement Noel’s pride swelled. There could be little doubt this lovely woman spoke her words with the purest force of truth. He turned to see Comyn frowning. Even the Scotsman heard Skena’s steadfastness.
Noel gave her a smile. “I count myself a lucky man, indeed, given Craigendan, and then Lady Skena consenting to plight her troth.”
“Any man wouldst consider himself rich in both,” Comyn replied tightly.
Not quite the blessings one might receive upon announcement of a betrothal, but then Noel hardly expected well wishes from this man. He had just stolen two things Duncan Comyn desired badly. That would see them bitter enemies. From this point forward, the Highland chief would be set against him in all. Well, he anticipated little more from a Scotsman whose brother tried to murder men close to him, hence the reality held little surprise. Beyond this, his mind harkened back to the detail that so easily Comyn could be mistaken for Angus Fadden in shadows and at a distance.
“Tell me, Sir Knight—the former baron here, was he your kinsman?”
Noel noticed Skena’s head snap back at his question, and Guillaume leaned forward to see the exchange more clearly. Ignoring them both, Noel kept his eyes fixed on Duncan, wanting to witness his smallest reactions, mayhap, make use of that bit of proofing Skena had imparted, which would reveal if there was truth in his reply.
Duncan looked straight at him in mild curiosity, naught more, not even batting an eyelash. “Nay, Angus heralded from a Lowlander clan near The Marches, I believe. Unawares I be of any blood connection betwixt us.”
Noel’s hand reached for his goblet, and then slowly raised the cup to his lips. Well, bloody hell, the man was telling the truth—on that much. Still, it did not rule out he played evil games, trying to scare Skena for some dark purpose. Being practical minded, he refused to believe Angus Fadden’s ghost was haunting Craigendan. The dead did not rise and walk.
Comyn came from his stronghold to the northwest. So, that still left the burning question—who had been taking shelter in the woods of Craigendan—and why?
♦◊♦
Long after dark, Noel entered the cleansing room and jerked off his sark. Picking up a bucket of warm water, he poured the contents over his head. He allowed it to rain down upon him to dilute the roe’s blood, which had splattered him and soaked through his clothing to his skin. Shaking his head in the manner of a wet dog, it felt good to get shed of the coppery scent and sticky feel. The stench reminded him too much of a battle. After giving the audience to Comyn, Guillaume and he had excused themselves, and gone to help butcher the fallen deer. Craigendan’s people would dine well this night.
His head lifted as he spied Skena coming in with the stack of cloths for drying and the Yule raiments for him to change into. He had not intended that she would attend him, why he chose to bathe down here instead of having the tub in the lord’s chamber filled. Some ugly things could not be avoided in life, but the stench of butchery he would spare his lady.
Guillaume sat down on the bench to undo the lacings around his boots, and then untie his chausses. Only in his braies, he was a fine figure of a man, a man to draw the eye of any female.
Yet, Skena barely took notice. Her eyes were only for him. His Skena. A half-smile formed on his mouth and in his heart. She placed the stack of linens on the table and then started toward him.
Noel shook his head. “Keep back, Skena. I am covered in blood. I wouldst not have it getting on you.”
Skena gave him a shrug. “I donned my work kirtle so I can wait upon you.”
“I give thanks, but still, I wouldst rather rid myself of the stench of guts and blood before I touch you.” He closed his eyes and fought the waves of emotions flooding through him. “The reek harkens back to battle, which still lingers too fresh in my mind.”
“You did this to see Craigendan’s people have meat. If I get blood on me due to caring for you, then I am honored,” she said simply.
Guillaume picked up a bucket and poured the water over his black head. Snorting, he wiped his face with his hand. “Lady Skena, can you send for the old woman to help me with washing my back?”
Skena crinkled her brow. “Muriel?”
“Aye, ’tis the one...” Guillaume laughed, “...three score, mayhap more, if she is a day. Has a tongue like an adder, and damn little respect for Englishmen.”
Skena seemed puzzled by his odd request. “Whilst I be sure Muriel wouldst enjoy the task, her fingers are no’ as nimble as they once were. Her joints go bad. One of my maidservants can aid you, Sir Guillaume.”
“Nay, ’tis the old woman or none.” Using the long tongs, he pulled the bucket back from the fireplace, and then folded a rag around the handle to lift the pail. He poured half of the steaming water into the tub, turned, dropped his braies and stepped into the water.
Skena looked back in question, but Noel lifted his shoulders in a shrug to say he had no idea why Guillaume made the strange plea.
“I have not lost my wits, Lady Skena. My squire is busy paying court to your doe-eyed kinswoman—one Elspeth by name—thus, I have no hands to help me. I am betrothed to Rowanne of Lochshane, and I wouldst have no tales carried to her ears that I was making free with your maids,” he explained.
“Then, as befitting your rank, I shall tend you. ’Tis your right as baron―” Skena began.
“Nay!” Noel barked, cutting her off. The word came out before he knew he had spoken. Whilst Guillaume was as a brother to him, he did not want Skena’s hands stroking the man’s bare flesh. He was unsure his teeth could stand the pressure from him grinding them!
Guillaume’s eyes flashed knowingly as he watched his friend. “As I said—send in the old woman.”
Skena nodded with a grin. “You be an honorable man, Baron. Not many men keep to their betrothed and respect them in such a fashion.” She started to head to the door, but seemed to have a second thought. She turned back, her expression troubled. “My lord, you should no’ give ear to ugly rumors about my kinswoman. Rowanne be a good woman. The black slurs come from the family of her late husband.”
“Oh, I do not listen to bilious tales. These past months I have slowly come to learn my lady’s mind. She is not an easy woman to know, not one to let you near and share her secrets. Whilst I put no store in such gossip, I fully believe my betrothed capable of taking a knife to me should I dally with some maidservant. The females of your blood have a warrior’s streak, willful unlike any I have crossed before. Hence, please call Muriel.” His laughter filled the chamber.
“I noticed, Baron, you do no’ sound truly frightened of my cousin. Instead, your tone holds a hint of amusement, even admiration. Methinks you get a good match in Rowanne. I shall go call Muriel.” Skena smiled, and then went to seek out the woman.
Once she was gone, Guillaume said in humor, “Outside of naturally mistrusting Duncan Comyn, ’cause his brother tried to murder Julian and Damian, then resenting him since he thought to move to claim Skena and Craigendan now the baron is dead, I sensed you had yet another bone to pick with him.”
Noel lifted the large pail to add heated water to the tub. “When I came back to the keep, Skena was absent. Elspeth spake she had gone to the stillroom to fetch some herbs, but never returned. Muriel and I went to find her. The stillroom was empty, so we widened the search.”
“Where was she?”
“At the bottom of the stairs, which led down into storage cellars below the fortress.”
“Damn you say! Was she hurt? She fell?”
Noel frowned. “’Tis what you might assume. She claims she had no idea how she came to be at the bottom of the steps. At first, I thought her mind addled, howbeit she insists she had followed a shadow, a man that called her name. She claimed she came in here, and didn’t see anyone, but went to check behind the screen. Then, a burel sack was dropped over her head, and she was flung against the wall, knocking sense of self out of her.”
“What sort of joukery be this? I assume she was unharmed, for she seems fine now.” Guillaume leaned over the tub’s edge and snagged a large chunk of soap sitting on the bench, then began lathering his chest. “And Comyn turning up just after that happened seemed a bit too convenient?”
Noel sat down and unlaced the cross ties on his boots. “Ever notice at a distance all dark-haired men with a close-cropped beard appear much the same?”
Guillaume thought for a moment and then nodded. “I never gave the matter thought. I suppose ’tis a valid observation. Why?”
“Skena said—” Noel’s words died as he heard steps in the hall, and then Skena entered with Muriel. “I shall speak more later.”
Noel skimmed off his leathern hose, and then out of his braies, climbing into the tub as Skena came to help him. She hissed as she spied the wound. Two red spots on her cheeks were visible even by firelight, and he had a feeling it was from anger not modesty.
“I do no’ ken why I work to heal you, de Servian. You disregard the seriousness of your wound as if you wish to see it fester again,” she fussed.
Noel leaned to the side of the tub to confide to Guillaume, “Notice I am de Servian, not Noel. I might be forced to giving her kissing lessons to earn my way back into her grace.” He jumped as she poured water into the tub. “Sard, lass! Watch where you dump that bloody stuff. It might be injurious to parts of me you may find useful in the near future.”
“Likely it will no’ matter, de Servian. You seem determined to rot before next spring.” Skena glared at him.
Noel reached up and snagged her hand. He rubbed it against his cheek. “’Tis nice, lass, to have someone caring about me. I promise to do better on the morrow. You may give all the orders you wish, and I shall obey.”
Muriel laughed aloud when Skena gave a huff of disbelief. “Aye, you be smart no’ to let a pretty man turn your thoughts, lass, especial with sly promises of obeying. Methinks our Rowanne will have a handful with this braw one.” She worked the rag up and down the baron’s spine.
Skena sat down on the stool and looked at him with sad eyes. “Noel, you needs must have care. Some of the poison from the wound remains still within your body. It will be days before you are shed of all the foulness. You have to allow healing in the proper fashion.” She reached up and swiped the splatters of blood from his face.
He felt bad that she fretted over him. “For far too long, I only had myself to consider, so such things little mattered.”
Muriel clucked her tongue, as Guillaume reached for the bucket and dumped it over his head. “Och, why the hurry, my lord? ’Tis been a few days passing since I scrubbed a back as bonnie as yours.”
“The honor is mine, and I give thanks. I wanted shed of the blood. A warrior comes to hate that copper smell. Hand me the sheeting. I shall allow Lady Skena to tend Noel at leisure, since she will need to dress and bandage his wound.” Accepting the length of linen, he wrapped it around him as he climbed from the wooden tub.
Noel waited until Guillaume had dressed and left, saying he would see them at supper. Once they were alone, he spoke the feelings troubling his mind. “Skena, you told me how to watch Comyn for lies. Such knowledge comes from watching him frequently to spot such ticks. I will be blunt—what are your feelings toward the man?”
She paused from soaping his back. “Feelings? None, outside I never trusted him. His brother I trusted even less. I be unsure how to explain the difference between the two men. Phelan Comyn paid court to my cousin Aithinne, and for a short time she feared her guardian might favor his suit. ’Tis why I respected Guillaume’s asking for Muriel’s aid instead of a maidservant. Phelan never paid such respect toward Aithinne. Once, at a Samhaine celebration, I caught him chasing after a scullery maid. I told my cousin. I think all breathed relief when Lyonglen refused Phelan’s suit. Something about him was immoral, in a lazy fashion, as if the world was there to serve him. Lies rolled off his tongue easier than telling truth. Though I sense Duncan is unworthy of trust, I never saw the same banefulness. He hungers for land, power and titles, as many second sons do throughout the realm. He keeps his eyes fixed on what he desires. I believe him capable of much to achieve those aims. I always suspected one day Phelan would meet with an accident, much akin to King Alexander falling off the cliff. His attacking the Challon party and getting himself killed likely saved Duncan the effort, methinks.”
Noel breathed a little easier hearing her assessment—but only a little. She held no liking for the man. That did not absolve the Scotsman of being capable of playing the ghost of Skena’s dead husband should he believe it aided him in reaching some pale goal. “Did you expect one day to be his lady wife?”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she shook her head. “Nay! The mummery of my women, pretending to be soldiery upon the wall, was to fool him so he did no’ act against Craigendan. Had he kenned how few men we had left, he wouldst have laid siege, and tried to force me to wed with him. We could never have held against his men. Why do you ask this?”
“He put forth an air of familiarity―” Noel lifted his brows in challenge.
“His presumption, naught more.” She nearly growled, but then suddenly broke into a grin. “Mayhap he was trying to tweak your nose—see you jealous?”
Noel reached out and cupped her neck, then pulled her to him. “It worked. I find I am territorial, Skena, likely more so where you and Craigendan are concerned. I have long yearned for a home, a wife, family.”
He kissed her gently, slowly, worshipping her with the devotion she deserved. The effect of Skena hit his blood with the power of mead and sent his heart racing wildly. His blood lodged in his groin, cramped with the need of her. He wanted to touch her, stroke her, taste her...endlessly. Only, now was not the time. He reluctantly pulled back. To save his sanity.
“Oh, lass, let us pray Sir Priest grants dispensation in the calling of the banns.” He lightly touched his forehead against hers, relishing their closeness. “If our presence was not required for the evening meal, I wouldst pull you across my lap and share my bath with you.”
“That tub does no’ have enough room for two.” She laughed, picking up a bucket to rinse the suds from his torso and head.
He grabbed a handful of her kirtle and played at pulling her toward the bathtub. “You dare me to put proof to that? It shall be my pleasure to teach you how well we will fit in this bloody thing.”
“Methinks this will cool you off, Lord de Servian.” She dumped the bucket of cold water over him.
A deep shiver beset his body. “You have no idea, you wicked woman. Hold up the sheet and help me out. Then, we can talk whilst you dress my wound.”
“Of what do you wish to speak?” She held the linen length for him until he was out, her eyes hungrily taking in his naked form.
He chuckled. “You keep looking at me that way and we shan’t be talking at all.”
“Sit on this bench whilst I dress your wound with the salve,” she said, then added impishly, “I will look, and you may talk.”
Noel sat, straddling the wooden bench. She touched the silky ointment to his wound. He jumped, but soon it had a calming effect on the flesh. “’Tis soothing. It feels like your touch cools the flame.”
“Aye, the worts ease the tenderness and promote the healing. ’Tis angry, but shows no signs of a bad healing. You are blessed. Sir Guillaume was right.” Her fingers traced over his back, marking the lines where the poisoning had begun spreading through him. “These lines are not so evident now.”
Noel gritted his teeth, aware Skena had no idea how her ghostly touch set his body to burning. He kept talking, but his mind was divided. “The wound pains me. Howbeit, I failed to experience any of the numbness within my hand this day.” He flexed his fingers testing it, glad not to experience the dead feeling. “The pain wouldst hit, and all sensation in my hand wouldst vanish. Like when your foot goes to sleep. It lingered longer each time. This past month, I had trouble holding my sword. I grew concerned. All day, I have felt none of that tingling.”
“Poisons invade the body and will slowly kill even the strongest warrior. There. ’Tis covered well. Stand by the fire and warm yourself. Then, I will wrap it so it will be comfortable for you.”
He stood and allowed the sheeting to drop lower on his hips, though he kept it gathered about him, lest Skena see how aroused he was, in spite of the dumping of the cold water. Even her prodding on the wound had not slowed his body’s insistent throbbing. She carefully unrolled the bandage about his waist, snug, yet not too tight. The movements brought her too close. He could not resist. As she tucked the end in, and then raised up, he brought his arms down to encircle her, trapping her.
Male power rose within him, enjoying how Skena’s full breasts pressed against his chest. By damn, he wanted her here and now, and did not care about the Church’s blessing. No words of man or God could give sanction to what he already knew―this woman belonged to him. This was so right, so special, he simply recognized to his deepest soul that Skena had been created for him. The emptiness inside him, that corner of his heart was no longer cold, dark―Skena brought him warmth and light.
“I feel your heart hammering against mine, lass.” His words were whispered in awe. “You sense how rare this is? We have been blessed in our meeting one snowy night.”
Her trembling hands reached out and clutched his upper arms. “No, I was blessed when I found one snowy knight. My knight. A very special man named Noel, who came to me at Yuletide.”