Chapter Twenty-Seven
Eyes can deceive, ears can deceive,
but the heart tells the truth.
—Maeve Montgomerie
Skena blindly ran out of the lord’s chamber—no idea where she was going, or what she planned to do. Still too much in shock, her steps carried her mindlessly onward. Her heart pounded, rapid, erratic, like that of a rabbit in a cage. She needed to be alone, to let her thoughts sort through what Noel had just told her.
He had killed Angus.
Men struck down other men in battle. ’Twas the ugly nature of warfare. With a brutality that was frightening, they dispatched soldiery by the score, slayed them in an effort to save their own lives, and rarely having knowledge of whose face was behind the helm. A warrior never distinguished if the foe were a father, husband or brother. Even on the rare instance they might, such a consideration had to matter little, because a single heartbeat of hesitation could see their own life forfeit.
Skena was fortunate never to have faced such an ugly choice—to take a life to insure she survived. Instantly, memories of her fighting the wolves sprang to mind. Possessed by the single desperation of fight or die, she had sickened from the smell of copper rising off the blood; that scent, the feel of hot blood splashing across her face were forever burned into her memory. If killing animals had reviled her so much, she hoped never to be forced into taking the life of another human being, preferring to remain far away from that abhorrent part of this world. Revulsion for killing aside, she grasped that she would slay to protect her children, or to save her own life. Only a fool would think otherwise.
As driving panic began to ease, reason surfaced to rule her mind once more. Had she not sensed that Noel de Servian was a good man? The Kenning told her this. Whilst the power had never been strong within her, it was with Noel. Never before had the gift lied to her. Surely, that must hold significance? Noel was a warrior true. He slayed upon a field of battle. Yet, she heard his words of deep anguish that war and death had been a part of his life.
She stopped running and stood perfectly still. Closing her eyes, she gave her mind over to the Kenning, hoping to find the answers she needed. That inner voice remained silent, no visions rose within her. Slowly, she sensed something—cold, a biting heavy air shifting about her, caressing her with ghostly hands.
Snow and fog? An odd combination, she thought.
Skena dragged in a deep breath, slowly allowing her lungs to expand, before releasing it gradually. The beats of her heart calmed, noise in her blood quietened. Even so, no matter how she tried to reach outwardly with her thoughts, her mind summoned naught but the image of a rising fog pushed by driving snow. Wings of panic fluttered in her chest, robbing her of breath. What could it mean?
Frustrated she could picture little else, Skena grew aware the chill was not just in her mind. She shivered as an ethereal breeze stirred, shifted ominously through the near darkened corridor. Blinking several times, she sought to get her bearings. This was part of the old tower where rooms were not oft used. She came this way as a step-saver, cutting through the fortress on the way to stand watch on the battlement when it was her turn. The original tower of the dun, it was too drafty, the winter air penetrating the stone and mortar. She had wished to see if the walls could be plastered over, hoping to improve the quarters and making them livable again. Angus had been set against her plan, and refused to allot coin for the expenditure. Since he went away, there were no skilled men to do the work.
Angus. He was dead.
Skena sighed, accepting that finality and straining to bring the pieces of her confusion back together. In truth, she summoned little sorrow that he failed to return. For too many years he had ignored her voice in running the fortress—her fortress—and hurt her pride before her people. Every day, she witnessed pity in their eyes, knowing Dorcas acted as if she were lady of Craigendan and not her. Regardless, the ingrained honorable part of her felt a jolt at learning Noel had been responsible for his death. With Noel, there was so much hope for a future. Sadly, it seemed as if Angus’s ghost put a taint on that possibility.
Despite Dorcas insisting that Angus still lived, that question was now put to rest. Noel had killed him. And like a silly child, she had fled before permitting him a chance to explain. She supposed what upset her most was that he failed to tell her before, but had kept the truth concealed.
“‘Oh, aye—good morrow, Lady Skena. I killed your lord husband, will you marry me?’” She muttered, mocking herself.
Trailing her hand along the stone wall to find her way, she moved down the unlit corridor, intent on seeking out the source of the icy air. The bitter draft seemed more bracing than before. Mayhap the wooden shutters and tapestries were in need of repair? With winter coming so early, she felt pressed to locate the source so she could decide how to address the problem.
A deep shiver shook Skena’s body, only this time, not from the frigid air. Prickles of apprehension from the Kenning.
Scared, her steps slowed. No torches burned in sconces to light these passageways. She approached the juncture, then turned the corner, and was plunged into impenetrable darkness. Tingles crawled over her skin warning her to go back. Unwisely, she had gone chasing the specter of a dead man twice, now. It would be sheer folly to bumble into the same situation yet again. Her mind at odds, Skena hesitated for several breaths before turning to go. On the morrow and in the bright light of day she would check for the source of the draft.
“Màthair.” The call floated on the cold air.
The single word held her rooted to the spot, overriding logic and barbs of dread. Ghostly, faint, so faint she thought her mind had conjured it from her trepidation.
She wanted to flee back to Noel, have him and Guillaume come examine this part of the fortress. He had assured her the whole dun had been checked thrice, and after his confession, she knew Angus did not walk these corridors. But a man had. That intruder could have come back to Craigendan after the searches.
Skena barely breathed as she waited to see if someone called again, or if her mind was simply playing shades and trickeries upon her troubled spirit. Slowly, her hand went to the sgian dubh at her waist and removed it from the sheath. Lowering her arm, she held the knife against her thigh, allowing the material of her kirtle to hide it. Not breathing, she remained motionless, waiting, listening. A quiver slithered over her skin—this time from the penetrating cold. The draft seemed stronger now.
’Twas naught but the wind whispering through the stones. Feeling childish, she gave up and turned to go back to Noel.
“Màthair.” This time the call was clear, edged with a thread of hysteria. Annis! Mother instincts kicked in, driving common sense from her mind. Nothing was stronger than a fear her child might be at risk.
“Annis?” she called, her question echoing hollowly against the stone walls, aware this was not the first time one or both of the children had slipped away from Nessa’s watchful eye. The last time they had found Noel, so she had lacked the heart to punish them. This instance, well, she was upset enough she would have to keep hold of the reins of her temper, else they might have tenderness sitting down for a day or two.
A small sob followed, like Annis was in pain, then another summons came. “Màthair.” Her whimpering reverberated against the walls of the dark passage.
Skena was torn. All logic told her to go back for Noel. Nonetheless, Annis crying was a dagger to her heart. “Annis, where are you?” Ignoring all caution, she started down the corridor. It was colder here, so frigid she could not stop shivering. She heard a banging at the end of the final turn, where the tower would open out onto the battlement.
With every step she swallowed fear, her mind screaming she was making a mistake. She had to know. Her child was crying. Never could she walk away from that fear.
At the last turn, she saw why the cold penetrated through the wing so strongly: the outer door was open and swinging in the gale. “Annis? Where you be, poppet?”
The word màthair came once more, but this time it was choked out and barely distinguishable, so broken by sobs. Her feet carried her forward, heedless of danger. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Turning her back on her child was not a choice.
As she neared the opening it grew brighter. Snow was blowing into the turret, covering the floor. Her daughter’s weeping echoed louder. The snowy light from the open door was suddenly blocked as a man stepped into the opening. He was broad shouldered, almost filling the door’s gap, but that was all she could tell about him. He was enveloped in a mantle that fell to his knees, and with the hood pulled up.
He was nothing more than a black wraith.
“Màthair...” Annis whimpered. “Make him...let go.”
As Skena’s eyes adjusted, her heart nearly stopped. The small figure of Annis in her white night-rail stood before the light-blocking silhouette, her arm in his grasp, yanked high.
“Let her go!” Skena took three steps forward, but halted as he tugged the child’s arm up behind her, making her squeal out in pain. “Please...let my daughter go.” Her hands were shaking, and tears streaked down her face.
“Mine as well, eh?” he said, taking a step back, as Skena moved forward.
She sucked in air and shook her head. “Nay! You be dead. You died on the field of Spottsmuir.”
“And yet here I be?” He made a wizard’s pass with his free hand and inclined his head in a half bow. “A miracle one might say. You do no’ sound happy to see me, Skena lass. Why be that?”
She fought her muscles, trying to hold on to shards of her control. “What do you want?”
Instead of answering, he whipped around, dragging Annis up the steps with him and out onto the boulevard.
Skena glanced back down the dark corridor, wishing for Noel to come. Fearing to hesitate any longer, she lifted the skirt of the chemise and chased after Angus. Just as she reached the door, it slammed hard in her face. She pounded on it, afraid he had blocked it to where she could not follow.
“Angus! Open this! Curse you!” Suddenly, it gave free, and she pushed the door wide.
Winds were whipping and howling, swirling like ghosts dancing across the long battlement. Her eyes searched in each direction, looking for Annis. She failed to spot anyone moving. The snow was hard, crystalline, more ice than flakes, lashing at her face and stinging her eyes. There was no one about. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
Seeing no soldiers patrolling this part of the fortress, she called out, “Guards! To me!” The determined wind almost flung the words back into her face. Skena had little hope her summons was carried.
Only silence and the moaning gusts answered.
Skena looked down, seeing two sets of footprints leading away from the entrance. As it blew across the open boulevard, the thick snow almost covered the tracks. She quickened her steps, following. Poor Annis was barefoot. But then, so was she.
As Skena reached the far turn she saw a man in a hooded mantle. His face was shielded by shadows, but everything about him screamed Angus. His voice...even his hands. He stood, his back to the crenellations, still gripping Annis by the upper arm. He jerked it up at an awkward angle, nearly lifted her off her feet, causing the little girl to whimper in terror and pain. Skena feared he might break the fragile bones.
“Tell her.” When Annis refused to obey his command, he pulled her elbow even higher with a sharp jerk. “Tell her!”
Annis whimpered. “Màthair... he says...I needs must tell you...” Annis faltered, choking on a frightened sob.
Once more, he tugged on her frail arm, nearly shaking her like a poppet. “Tell her! Now!”
“Stop! Do no’ hurt her!” Skena’s eyes whipped from side-to-side, trying to judge what his intent might be. The stairs were to her left, steep, descending the two stories to the bailey. That direction would take him to the postern gate. Skena’s fingers flexed around the wooden handle of her sgian dubh, yet she vacillated to lunge at Angus, for fear he might shove her daughter down the steep steps. “She be so small. Do no’ hurt her. Please! I will do anything.”
He gave Annis another savage shake. “Do as I say. Tell her.”
Annis lifted her head, her hair spilling over one side of her poignant face. ““He spake he wouldst let me go...if you leave with him.”
“Take your hands off her,” Skena cried. Trembling, she moved forward three steps. “I will do whatever you wish...just let my daughter go...please?”
“Come here, Skena lass,” he snarled.
Angus clearly was not the same man who had gone away oh so many months ago. Skena knew she could never trust him to let Annis go free. Hidden in the folds of her gown, her hand flexed around the hilt of the sgian dubh. Fighting blind panic, her sense told her to stall for time. Surely, someone would come looking for her, or the men patrolling would return? She had to be ready to step between him and her daughter, strike when the moment presented itself.
“I could take the girl...”
Skena’s teeth gritted at hearing him once more calling Annis the girl, as if the child warranted no more empathy or love than a hound. Her whole body clinched, hardening into hatred.
“She be easier to control. That was my plan. But you be the prize, Skena MacIain.” He spoke the name with contempt. “Aye, I wouldst much rather have you. Time to pay for the choices you made.”
Behind her, the door flung open, crashing back with a bang as metal met stone. “Skena!” Her name floated in the distance causing her heart to jump with joy. Noel was on the boulevard! “Skena!”
Distracted, she took her eyes off her daughter. In the distance, Skena could just make out the tall form of a man running toward them. Noel!
Her attention swung back, as Angus snatched Annis around the waist, hefting her up against his hip. He reached for something resting between the two merlons, then jumped up and into the space, standing at the edge of the steep precipice.
“Too late, Skena. Remember that. I made the offer of a trade—you for her.” He taunted.
Skena knew what he had grabbed. A rope! He was planning on repelling over the side of the stone wall with Annis! Knowing true panic, she screamed and lunged at him with the small knife. He was already leaning out, putting strain on the grappling hook, ready to push away from the crenellation and begin his descent. Annis was struggling against his hold, her legs flailing. With one arm locked about the little girl, he would make the drop using only his right hand to control the rope. It was madness!
Skena clutched at Annis with her left hand, trying to catch her about the waist, while slashing down with her right. With his voluminous cape eddying in the stiff wind, she was unsure if the knife hit anything vital, or if he simply was startled by her attack, but it was enough to cause him to loosen his grip on Annis.
Then, everything moved too fast. Skena freed Annis from Angus’s clutch. In the same breath, Noel took hold of the child, preventing Annis from falling backward when the hooded man dropped over the edge. For a heartbeat, Skena thought the nightmare was over. Noel had Annis—she was safe!
But then, Skena felt her whole body yanked slowly forward!
She screamed as she was shoulders over the battlement and being dragged against her will. More voices rang out behind her, but she could not spare time or focus to sort out what was occurring.
“Sorry, Skena. You made your choice. Betrayal demands a hard price, lass.” Angus laughed just below her. One hand was firmly about the rope—the other had a hold on her long braid! He was using her hair as a tether to drag her over the side!
Bones grinding in her neck, she feared it might snap. Was that his intent? Was he going to kill her for loving Noel?
Behind her, Noel was trying to drag her back, which only increased the pressure on her twisted neck. Blind with terror, she realized the fingers of her right hand still clutched the dagger. With effort, she finally loosened the sgian dubh from the thick wool of his mantle.
“Archers!” Someone called.
Noel shouted, “Belay! Belay! You might hit Skena!”
Skena swung out, trying to strike the hand firmly around her long braid, but felt herself tip precariously forward. A cry was torn from her body and she desperately thrashed around with her free hand, trying to find some purchase on the side of the merlon to resist, her fingernails clawing at the rough mortar and granite stone. Someone—Noel?—grabbed her wrist trying to give her an anchor; it might have been Guillaume, for she heard him behind her as well. She could hear both of them calling her name, telling her to do things, but terror blocked her from comprehending their words. She could only see below, in a total panic that she would fall to her death.
She so desperately wanted to live. To see Annis grown, so beautiful in a gown of pale blue on the morn of her wedding; witness Andrew a strong warrior, molded by the firm, yet gentle hand of Noel—not his father of blood, but one that would see him grow to manhood in a path of honor, a better father than Angus could have ever been. Images of her standing over Noel in the snow, ready to fight the wolf to save him, of how handsome he as spake his vows when they wed. Everything began to blur as tears flooded her eyes. Skena blinked rapidly to be shed of the droplets. Now was not the time for crying.
Despite fighting against the pressure, she slipped farther out over the edge, now pulling Noel with her. Sucking in a breath, she lashed out with the knife, dragging it against the end of her braid. Desperately, she sawed through the tresses, until it gave free.
A surprised grunt came from Angus, as he plunged farther down the rope, crashing against the façade of the fortress, and vanishing into the rising fog below. Snow and Fog.
Noel, Guillaume and she crashed back to the snowy deck, arms tangled. For a moment, Skena could not move. Instead, she just lay there, trying to breathe. Noel grabbed her and held her tightly. Shaking, she huddled against his strong body.
Jenna and Nessa came running up, with Muriel trailing behind. The elderly woman wrapped her arms around Annis to reassure the little girl.
Springing to his feet, Guillaume called for his soldiers to follow him. He flew down the steep stairs, heading for the postern gate, determined to run down Angus.
Noel kissed her brow, then her nose. A jerk moved through his chest and he squeezed her tighter. “That was too close.”
Too much, Skena could not find her voice. She gave a faint nod.
“Skena, who was it?” Noel finally asked.
She looked at him through tear-filled eyes, knowing he would not want to hear her answer. “Angus.”
Noel’s brows slanted downward in disbelief, as he rose to his feet. “Skena, did you forget—”
“I forget naught, Noel de Servian. Grant me the senses the gods gave me. I be neither stupid nor blind.” Emotions off kilter, suddenly fear switched to anger—not truly at Noel, but how close she came to losing all.
He stood staring at her not knowing what to think, bafflement clear on his face. “’Tis dark, hard to see. As I spake before, a man could be mistaken for another—especial one that wears a beard and has long hair, their face shadowed by a hood.”
Skena did not want to argue, but knew what she had seen. “His hands, his voice...he called Annis—” her throat tightened trying to force the hurt and anger out, “—the girl. Angus always called her that. Not once can I recall him speaking her name. I cringed every time he did that, as if she was worthless because she was not a son. When I begged for him to let my daughter go, he said, mine as well. Mine...as...well, Noel.”
Noel looked helpless. “Angus is dead.”
Standing up, Skena tossed her hands in the air. “You killed someone, Noel, but you did no’ ken Angus. You only know that a man spake he was Angus Fadden. If he escaped the battle, and one of Craigendan’s men gave pretense of being him, you had no way to ken the truth. Was there anyone, outside of my villeins, who could say beyond a doubt the man you killed was Angus?”
Noel shook his head, yet still not convinced.
“’Tis cold. Annis and I need to get inside before we take sick.” She took a step but found her muscles barely able to hold her. Putting a hand to her heart, Skena paused for a moment. It had been close. Too damn close. Blood in her head buzzed with lightheadedness.
Noel wrapped his arm about her for support. “Fear not, Skena, we shall sort this matter out. I plight that troth.”
Annis broke free of Jenna and ran to Noel. She wrapped her arms about his waist and clung to him, needing his reassurance, too. The child let out with a sob that wracked her whole body. Noel’s hand gently reached out and stroked her daughter’s hair. Then, he lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at him.
“Sweet Annis, please do not shake so. No one shall ever scare you again. This I so promise on my honor as a knight,” he spoke in a soft, reassuring tone. “Do you know who the man was?”
Her small head bobbed yes. Annis finally looked up, tears trickling down her pale cheeks. “’Twas áthair.”
Noel’s gentle expression turned to one of shock. “Father? The man was your father?”
Skena flashed him a look of I told you so. She felt something warm and wet on her fingers so she yanked them back. Blood covered them. Then, she noticed the dark stain, spreading on the back of his shirt—the stark contrast of the white sark with the hand size discoloration that appeared black in the pale light.
“Noel! You bleed from your wound,” she gasped. “Come, let me bandage this.”
At the entrance to the old dun, she paused and looked back, his lips whispering thanks to the Lady that they had survived the ordeal. No matter what Noel told her before, they now knew Angus was alive.
And he wanted her dead.
♦◊♦
Noel watched Skena preparing worts, cutting the length of material for a bandage―and avoiding looking at him. Her movements were jerky. To be expected, he supposed. It was not every day a dead man tried to kill you. He still did not know what to think. Was Angus Fadden truly alive? Then, who had he killed on the field of Spottsmuir?
There were too many changes in her life with which to deal, the threat of a man menacing her and mayhap the children. No matter how Noel tried to cypher it out, he kept coming back in circles. Skena and Annis both believed the man who nearly killed them was Angus Fadden.
Skena was a smart woman, and wisely realized the gravity of her situation, realized that in battle men killed. In time she would forgive his confession. Only, how did one fight a ghost, one that was more flesh and blood than phantom?
She picked up the knife to cut the length of material. Her hand fisted around the hilt and something dark passed behind her eyes. She glanced over at him, watching him in a way that bought him sadness.
“You wish to use it on me?” he asked with a crooked grin.
She seemed lost in her thoughts, but then slowly blinked. “I was thinking of my hand on my sgian dubh. If I had not taken it out before I followed him...”
“You did, and saved yourself.” He lifted the ends of her hair now shorter by a hand’s length. “You have enough hair to spare. Skena, I know you believe it was Angus—”
She held up her hand to silence him. “You heard Annis.”
“Skena, she is a small child. Fadden left Craigendan nearly a year’s passing. A long time for a child’s mind. Memories can blur. Children have an odd angle of the world, always having to look up at adults. It changes perspective. Have you ever seen someone from a distance and thought them another person—like your cousins Tamlyn and Aithinne. From a distance many might mistake them. Julian and Damian are like that, too, only Damian is taller. There are differences, but you cannot see from a distance.”
“I assure you, Noel, it was very close.” She shuddered. “His hands, the voice, how he called Annis the girl.”
“Did you see his face in full light, or just hidden by the shadows of the hood and the night?”
She closed her eyes, pain rippling through her. “When I was hanging over the edge, looking down at him...I tell you...it was Angus.”
“Mayhap a misplaced guilt at moving on with your life troubles your mind?” When she said naught he went on. “S’truth I struggle to sort my thoughts. We know that no ghost stalks Craigendan. You and Annis believe it to be Angus. I killed Fadden. He was the leader of your men. Think—there was none other who looked like him at Craigendan. Am I right?”
Skena nodded. “Angus stood out from the men.”
“There is a logic behind this evil-doing. I shall get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
Skena took the knife and began carefully slicing away the bandage and allowing it to drop to the floor. “You cracked the scabbing. It bleeds pure blood, no infection.”
Her shaking fingers cleansed the wound and then dabbed the soothing salve across it. He heard her breathing hitch. She was too close to him. His scent, his heat was affecting her physically. He understood the problem only too well. Each brush of those fingers caused his body to buck. So many emotions pumped through him―anger for a man he may have to kill a second time, fear of how close he came to losing her…and he needed her. As he needed his blood or air to survive.
As she moved around him, wrapping the material and then securing it into place, he noticed she was affected by their nearness. As she tucked in the gauze at his waist, her fingers lingered on his belly. They flexed faintly, as if she desired to touch him, but held back.
“You speak of the Kenning—these powers in women of Ogilvie blood. Can you not touch me, walk in my mind, and know who I am? What I am?”
Her lower lip trembled. “The Kenning was never very strong in me. I oft feared because I forsook the Ogilvie name that mayhap I paid price for the power never rising within me. Yet Tamlyn took her father’s name, and she is one of the strongest in the clan. I finally assumed it was me, that I was lacking. Until...”
“Until?” he pressed.
She looked at up him, her eyes huge, luminous. “Until I touched you. It sang clear within me.”
“Do you understand I killed Angus in defense?”
She put the fingers of her right hand to his mouth. “You need not say the words to defend your actions. In one of the visions, I saw. I was there. I screamed trying to warn you.”
“Tell me,” he asked wanting to understand her gift better.
Skena’s eyes seemed distant, as if she breathed within her memories now. “’Tis hard to explain. I was suddenly there—at Spottsmuir. Bodies...” She shuddered in revulsion. “I have never seen such horrors. Then, you rode up on your white stallion. Other knights on horseback followed you, with soldiery afoot behind them. You rode up, close. You were in dark mail and helm, but I could see your silver eyes. Oddly, you seemed to see me. I think you even called my name. You dismounted. There were others about, but they were faceless to me, just blurs.”
When she stopped talking, he encouraged, “Go on, Skena.”
“I pushed and shoved, struggling to get through them, to reach you, but then I saw the sword.” Her eyes narrowed on his face, her lower lip trembled.
His hands grabbed her upper arms. “You saw? Think, Skena. You could see who attacked me?”
“I was blocked by another’s body. I could see the hand holding the sword—witness as it plunged into your back.” Tears streamed down her face. “I felt as if I had taken the blade in your stead.”
Noel slowly drew her to him, brushing his lips against hers. He was so cold, as if icy fingers clutched his soul. He came too close to losing her, making him realize her death would have destroyed him. He broke the kiss. “Enough talk for one night. Come, I needs must hold you through what remains of the night. Know you are safe in my embrace.”
It was long into the night when a scratching came at the door. Skena had finally fallen asleep, so Noel carefully slid sideways, scooting from where he sat holding her. He carefully pulled the woolen cover up so she would not feel the chill.
Only in his hose, he padded to the door, and slowly opened it. As expected, Guillaume stood there, looking worn out.
He shook his head no. “We tracked him to Loch Shane Mohr and then he vanished. We circled the whole loch. It was as if he walked on water, for the footprints started again on the far bank. From there, he headed toward Comyn land. We lost him in their woods.”
“Comyn again,” Noel growled.
“Sorry. We will start again at first light and see if we can pick up the trail.” Guillaume patted Noel’s arm. “Do not fret. We shall run him to ground.”
Noel agreed, a fury burning in his heart. “Oh, aye, I shall run him to ground and then kill him. Whoever he is. And I will take great pleasure in holding his body as I watch the life leave his eyes.”