Chapter Twenty-Three
A ghost canno’ hurt you, the maiden said,
only her steps hurried her onward in dread...
—John Francis Ogilvie
The fire had burned low, allowing the wintry chill to creep into the chamber. But it was more than the night’s cold touching him—it was the absence of Skena. So easily, he could conjure images of her sleeping quietly next to him, just watching her slumber as firelight touched her womanly form. In growing frustration, Noel threw back the covers and stalked to the fireplace. Tossing a couple of peats onto the low-burning fire, he used the poker to prod the flames to life. In spite of still finding burning dirt an oddity, he was coming to enjoy the rich aroma.
A restlessness crawled under his skin and refused to be quietened. He felt like a caged beast, sensing his mate was near, and yet, could not get to her.
Noel sighed. The whole bloody night had been frustrating. He had intended to speak to Skena more about Comyn, question if he could be mumming as Angus’s ghost, what aims the man might hope to achieve in tormenting her in this way. Mating instinct had caused him to become sidetracked in the cleansing room, so utterly lost in the magic of love and Skena. He was a breath away from skipping the promised kissing lessons and putting her on that rickety table and taking her with all the force thundering in his blood. Much to his ire, he had been thwarted by Cook sending Kenneth and Owen in to empty the bathwater from the tubs.
Skena had to hurry to dress for supper. Later, there was no way he could question Skena about Duncan Comyn with the fool man sitting at his elbow.
The roasted meat was delicious, and he made sure that she had eaten well, and even pushed her to eat a few more bites. She finally cried off, saying if she partook of another morsel of the wonderful roe he would have to carry her upstairs. Despite his back aching from being up all day, he would have gladly endured the pain to have that privilege.
They lingered belowstairs, outwaiting Comyn until he finally had given up and sought his bed. After the scare of finding Skena at the bottom of the cellar stairs, Noel had chafed, watching Skena go into the small chamber alone, aching instead to hold her all night, to know she was safe. Only then could he rest. Skena stubbornly refused, saying she would not have Comyn going back and speaking of her sleeping with Noel before they were wed, so she retired to a room near the children.
Noel jabbed at the blocks of peat, venting his irritation through the iron rod. “Enough of this.” He tossed the poker aside.
Picking up his heavy mantle, he swung it around his shoulders, and stalked down the hallway. His steps slowed as he passed the room where Guillaume was quartered, not wanting to awaken his friend. The door was cracked open―Guillaume being his cautious self. Without doubt, he was sleeping with one eye open due to a Comyn being under the roof. Skena might think the man less a knave than his dead brother, but bad blood tended to run in families. There was no question Phelan Comyn had wanted to murder Damian and Aithinne, would have also killed Julian and Tamlyn in the ambush, just four months past. Neither Guillaume nor he would rest peacefully until the younger brother was far away from Craigendan.
The floor creaked with a shifting weight as the door was silently pulled back. Guillaume, still dressed in shirt and hose, held his sword in hand. The corner of his mouth quirked up when he saw it was only Noel. “So, I am not the only one failing to find my rest this night. Where might you be heading, my dear friend? Or should I not waste breath in the asking?”
“If you wish to carry that pretty smile back to your Lady Rowanne, you might wisely keep your taunts behind your teeth,” Noel warned in humor.
“Not that I could not best you in any fight,” Guillaume rested the sword’s blade against his shoulder, “but ’tis nary a taunt. I am happy for you, happy to see you are finding something you have long yearned for. Challon men were sent northward as punishment, but are finding reward beyond measure in this pagan land. I only hope someday soon Edward shall tire of keeping Redam and Dare close, and release them to join us here.”
Noel nodded. “The Challons have long served Edward, which has seen the dragons tested and hardened in the crucible of war for too many years. The king is no longer young. Three score comes soon for him. He should hunger for fireside and comfort instead of living from the seat of a war saddle.”
“Edward shall die in his war saddle whether he be five score. He jests that he will have them fill his coffin with tree-pitch and they can prop him up before the army when they go to war. The Men of Challon need to be far away from him, my friend. Go find your lady fair. I shall keep watch on your unwanted guest this night. Late on the morrow, men from Lochshane arrive to reinforce you. The day after, Julian shall send more men and supplies from Glenrogha. We shall see Craigendan secure through winter. Come spring, you can take further measures to secure your holding. You have plenty of marriageable age females here. They will help you attract men looking to earn knighthood.” Guillaume’s voice softened in admiration. “Your Skena held this place together for nearly eight months in dire circumstances. Think what the two of you can accomplish together. Keep her close until Comyn is gone. I mislike her being attacked this morn, and then his appearing soon after. Too timely, if you wish my humble opinion. Damian heals still from the arrows loosed into him by the hand of Duncan’s brother. That alone would see me mistrust aught from this man.”
“Aye, his looking much like Fadden troubles me.”
“My men are posted. We can sleep when reinforcements come.” Guillaume’s green eyes flashed over him. “You must be losing your touch. I wouldst expect you to have Skena close by your side.”
“She wants Comyn to carry no tales about her back to his people. I was trying to be honorable.” Noel shrugged.
“As I do with Rowanne, though ’tis been damn hard on me. I have since come to the conclusion that being honorable be for priests and saints, and the wrong tack to take with Ogilvie women. Learn from my misstep.”
Noel touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. “Methinks I shall heed your sage advice.”
Guillaume grinned and turned to go back into the room. He called over his shoulder, “I thought you might.”
Noel continued down the dimly lit corridor, muttering at his stupidity for not insisting Skena stay the night with him in the first place. “We could be tucked up, warm, instead of me traipsing about this drafty place.”
He pushed open the door to the smaller room and frowned. Noel stared at the empty bed. The bedcovers were rumpled and half tossed back. Even in the deep shadows, it was clear to see Skena was gone.
“Oh, when I find her...” he growled, trying to come up with a proper threat.
♦◊♦
In measured steps Skena walked the length of the boulevard, counting each footfall in her path to the turn and then back—the middle point of the walkway around the curtain wall. Many times, these past months of summer and autumn, she had taken her turn at guard duty. She oft selected the late watch, it being one of the few times in her hectic life that she found complete solitude. She enjoyed the lure of the night, the mysteries the moon created across the landscape as it played a game with shadows and shapes.
She lifted the hood of the fur-lined mantle closer about her face. It was cold, but not as bitter as it had been. She worried. Sometimes, it grew warmer for a short spell before another heavy snowstorm descended. Still, for the first time this year, she breathed in some measure of hope, her burdens lightened because Noel had come.
A loud crack sounded behind her, making her jump. She was not a coward, yet she froze, some primeval animalistic instinct said to stay perfectly still until she knew from where the threat came. She remained motionless, barely breathing, waiting to hear if more noises followed. Only silence. After the first fright, her heart slowly began to beat again, and she felt safe to stir. Pulling her small sword from the sheath, she moved in the direction of the disturbance.
As she turned the far right corner, hurried steps came from the opposite track. She pulled up, getting a tight grip on the sword’s hilt. A man moved through the shadows, coming toward her. She tensed, almost expecting the worst―to come face-to-face with Angus. Instead, warm relief flooded through her as he passed through a shaft of moonlight, breaking from behind the clouds, and she saw it was only one of the knights from the Challon cadre.
“My lady.” He gave a respectful nod. “’Tis naught to fear. No evil invaders use a ram against the walls in a sneak attack. Look for yourself. ’Tis only a massive icicle sheet formed by the overhang. It grew too heavy, and crashed to the ground below.”
Skena leaned through the crenellation in the wall to see a man-sized sheet of ice half shattered directly below. “I suppose there will be more of those crashes.”
“Most likely. The wind shifts, coming from the southwest. Air is warmer off the big seas.” He eyed her. “Should you not be inside? Whilst the wind is pleasant enough, ’tis still too cold to be on the wall. I am certain Lord de Servian wouldst not wish you out this time of night.”
It rankled that he thought she could not be out without Noel’s leave. “I be quite used to being up here in the wee hours of morn. I oft keep the watch. In an odd way, ’tis peaceful. Rare when can we find true solitude in a fortress.” Skena could see the young man was not going to leave her be, so she added, “I shall go back inside shortly. The smoke from the fireplace gave me an ache in my head, so I came out for fresh air.”
“Then, I leave you to your thoughts, my lady. If you need aught, just call. I will hear you. I am Stephan…Stephan Mallory,” he said.
Skena studied the tall, fair-haired knight in the blue rays of moonlight. “You are no’ of Norman blood, but English?”
“Aye, I come from Cornwall, my lady. I swore oath to Guillaume Challon because I wanted to fight for none other than the Dragons of Challon. I am honored he accepted me as his man.”
“Keep you well, Stephan Mallory.” Skena turned away.
“God watch over you, my lady,” he wished her in return.
Skena slowly retraced her steps. If she went inside, she would go straight to Noel, pulled to him as if he were a lodestone. He had wanted to take her in the cleansing room. He would have, only Kenneth and Owen had come in to empty the tubs. And she would have let him. Her body ached, thinking on how hot his flesh burned, how the muscles of his arms tensed under her hands. His scent. His taste. She paused to look out through a crenel across the dead zone, allowing the breeze to buffet her.
Noel brought so many things to her―hopes that dreams could be more than just wishes. He could help her make them come true. Love. Oh, how she wanted his love! She wanted to belong to this very special man. Yearned to have him need her in the same fashion. Only, she never anticipated that love could affect her body to the point of agony.
As she had lain in her small chamber, her blood ran hot. She craved to go to Noel, slide into his bed and awaken him as her hands stroked his firm flesh. Never had she wanted to be touched in such wantonness. She yearned for Noel to touch her, to teach her the mysteries of his love. She closed her eyes and summoned the dream of him, from when she walked in his mind, how he touched her under the apple tree. So strong the images, the scent of apple blossoms seemed carried on the night breeze. Drawing hard on the vision, she allowed her body to pulse and burn with all the ghostly feelings of Noel’s hands upon her flesh, squeezing her breasts, of his sword-roughened palm gliding up her thigh.
“Skena…”
For a heartbeat the discordant strain of the whisper almost became a part of her fantasy, but then she felt its icy, alien intrusion crawl across her skin. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing the lids tight to lend pretense that she failed to hear the call. The first time she had seen Angus, she feared her guilt was summoning his shade back from the dead. After this morning, when she followed him to the cleaning room and the dusty sack was dropped over her head, she quickly vanquished any question of guilt. Human hands had pulled that sack over her head and then slammed her against the wall. Arms―strong arms―had carried her to the bottom of the cellar steps. If that man was Angus, then he was―as Dorcas insisted―very much alive. Only, Noel insisted Angus was dead, that there was no room for doubt. She knew Noel would never lie about this. The more she tried to unriddle who the shadow man was, and his purpose for showing himself only to her, the less she could detangle the nagging questions.
She reached out with the Kenning and sensed only blackness, a swirling, seething darkness that terrified her.
“Skena…”
Her hand tightened about the small sword hidden under her heavy mantle. This time she would not face the threat defenseless. Her heart rocked heavy in her chest, but she sought to control the alarm’s quickening with slow steady breaths.
“Skena…”
She gave a small jump as the summons was close, closer than she anticipated. Opening her eyes, she saw the sinister form of a man slowly walking toward her. Since she refused to heed his call, he was stalking her.
“You are no’ Angus,” she muttered under her breath, and took a hesitant step backward. Then another. Her right foot came down on a stone, causing her ankle to twist painfully.
If she kept going to her right she would backtrack to young Mallory on patrol, or she could go back to the entrance, rush to Noel and awaken him. She would not be so foolish to confront this man alone as she had done before. The last occasion, she ended up at the bottom of a staircase. This time, she might end up at the bottom of the curtain wall along with the sheets of icicles.
She kept retreating with shaky steps, her ankle hurting each time she put weight on it. The corner was near. Then, it would only be a few paces to the old tower entrance. Not long. Yet, it seemed a furlong away.
His footsteps quickened. She matched them, finally breaking into a run. Skena glanced over her shoulder to see him gaining. She ran. She screamed, but the rising breeze coming strong from the southwest, nearly threw the sound back in her face. Surely, Mallory on patrol would hear her and come to her aid.
She looked down the long boulevard, searching for his blond head. No one was there. Where had the English soldier gone? The entranceway was just ahead, but she heard footfalls closing behind her. She reached the door and pushed against it. It refused to give. The door was never locked, and could only be bolted from the inside. She had left it cracked open when she came out, only a short time ago. Yanking on it proved useless. Pounding on it with her fist, she then kicked at it, but then gave up as the dark figure rounded the turn.
Skena fled, hoping to reach the stairs where they descended straight into the bailey. Instead of coming on fast, he slowed, moving in deliberate steps. He was confident she had rushed into his trap, and he now had her cornered. The moon broke free, sending rays to shower him with pale light.
Dizziness sprung through. Aye, she trusted Noel to tell her the truth. Even so, she stared at Angus. He seemed leaner, but then months of hardship could do that to a body. Had she not lost weight? She did not stop to consider why she should fear Angus. The Kenning buzzed within her, driving her onward, to flee in fear of losing her life. Whatever had been between them before his going away had changed. She accepted what the inner voice told her―and bolted.
The small sword tangled with her skirts and mantle, causing her to drop it. She quickly glanced back, but left it lay. Coming down off-balance on her right foot, her ankle violently jerked to the side, nearly causing her to stumble. She cried out, but pushed onward. Picking up the heavy material of her clothing she hurried her gait.
“Skena…wait!”
The second turn was ahead, the steep steps just beyond. Pushing herself hard, she flew around the corner, not slowing—and slammed hard into the chest of a man. She tried to strike out, push away from him, but he was immovable. Catching her by the upper arms, he held tight and refused to let go. Tears streaming down her face she fought the blackness threatening to claim her.
She had been right―she ran straight into his trap.