Chapter Thirty-Two
The wolf sheds its skin...to reveal a wolf.
—Adrian Macgillivray
Noel was in a high mood, nearly giddy with the joy of Skena filling his heart, his life. Never had he been this happy. He wanted everyone to share this rare feeling, yet as he glanced at his closest friend in the world, he saw Guillaume was far from the same set of mind. Hurrying to tie the fallen roe onto the back of his squire’s horse, his friend’s face was drawn. Wanting to do something to reach past the darkness clouding Guillaume’s soul, Noel scooped up a handful of snow and let go, hitting him square in the shoulder.
Guillaume swung around. “Are you daft? The snow already comes down to soak us. You need not purposely set out to speed up matters.”
“Such a sour disposition! Recall how Julian, Destain, Redam, Damian and Dare used to build snow castles with us? Then, we would stage mock battles?” Noel asked, hoping the memory of their childhood would lighten his friend’s spirit.
Finally, a faint smile played around the corners of Guillaume’s mouth. “Happy times, true, but then we were young and too foolish to know we were better off inside out of the weather. I should make you awares, Noel, your continual good cheer is not infectious, and attempts to jolly me is bloody irritating. Alas, I am in a foul mood. Leave it go.”
“Alas, marriage agrees with me. I wish those about me to share my contentment.”
“Cease prattling and help me tie off the buck so we can please get back? Daylight fast fades, and it cannot help escape your notice that a bad storm quickens upon us.” Guillaume grumbled, running the rope around the roe’s hips. “Stupid deer ran too far. We are nearly to Gailleann Castle. That is the stronghold in the distance―far out there in the middle of the loch.”
Noel looked off at the fortress, hardly more than a small glimmer in the fading light. “I shall take your word that is a castle. Belongs to the Lady Caitrin Bannatyne?”
Guillaume nodded. “Oh, aye. And mind, the name serves her well. They call her Lady Cait in jest, and believe me, that is one cat with claws. What she wants with that sop Kieran Mackenzie I will never know.”
Noel chuckled. “Mayhap she wishes a weak husband so she can do as she pleases.”
“Possibly. She puts forth claim they were destined to wed because of some childhood vow. Bah! Mackenzie looks at her like a sister, not a lover.” Satisfied the dead animal was secure, Guillaume went to mount his white stallion. “Shall we make haste to reach Craigendan before nightfall? You, at least, have someone awaiting your return.”
“You have someone waiting for you, as well.” Noel swung up on Brishen and nudged his mount homeward.
“I am beginning to fear that Rowanne wouldst be most happy if I went away and never returned,” Guillaume confessed as they moved out. “You saw her last night―jerked away like my touch was that of a leper’s.”
Noel reined his stallion to fall in beside Guillaume’s white charger. “I saw. At the time, I pondered that her reaction was a little extreme. Mayhap she feigns not wanting your touch because it provokes too much within her. She works hard to keep you at arm’s length, but I question if ’tis because she dares not allow you close or she loses her battle.”
As they rode along in silence, Noel considered the woman. He wanted to like Skena’s cousin. Rowanne was now kin, a cousin by marriage. Toward him, the baroness was warm, even charming. The instant she turned her arresting brown eyes upon Guillaume, her mouth set and her whole demeanor changed. Her perpetual coolness toward Guillaume stopped Noel from truly liking the lady.
“My thoughts―stop deferring to her wishes at every turn. Do not allow the distance she puts between you.” Noel knew this was already at the fore of Guillaume’s cyphers, so he merely prodded to set things in action. “Lay siege to her. You are one of Edward’s fiercest warriors. Surely, winning the surrender of a Highland lass would be a simple task for a man of Challon? Oh, mind, I am not suggesting that you force her into your bed. Simply inflict your presence upon the lady at every turn.”
Guillaume chuckled. “Inflict? I am sure that is precisely how she would view it.”
“Ah, whilst I am more beautiful than you―and I have Skena’s word on this, mind―you are still a comely man. All the Challon Dragons are bait that lure females. Why should Lady Rowanne be so different? Mayhap you needs must get sick so she would be forced to care for you. It certainly sped haste to Skena’s falling in love with me.”
“And you with her, eh?” Guillaume pointed out.
“’Tis truth. I highly recommend it as a way to win a lady’s heart. Rowanne would have no way to keep up that bastion betwixt you. The touching, the care, it has a way of working on the senses. Very seductive.” Noel gave the reins a jerk as Brishen tried to reach over and nip Guillaume’s horse.
Cocking a black brow, Guillaume clearly gave consideration to the idea. The corners of his mouth twitched, saying he was of two minds. “I mislike deception. ’Tis not a good footing upon which to start a marriage.” Holding his hand out palm up, he allowed the snow to gather on his leathern gauntlets. “Of course, at this rate I shall catch my death before we reach Craigendan. Mayhap I shall not have to feign sickness.” He leaned over in the saddle and patted Noel’s shoulder. “Not blood brothers, but truly brothers of our hearts, eh?”
“Scots hold belief that foster brothers have a stronger bond. There is not the competition between them that oft is seen in brothers of blood―no younger brothers coveting what the older has. That―” Noel’s words stopped as cold fingers of apprehension spread through his soul. “Sometimes I am a bloody fool. God’s teeth! I am a king’s fool!” He set his heels to Brishen’s ribs, causing the stallion to rear slightly in the snow.
“Noel! Wait!” Guillaume shouted.
Noel did not slow Brishen, but urged a faster pace, riding through the slippery snow without care. Perchance it was simply his realization dawning within him, but he suddenly had the urgent feeling Skena needed him.
♦◊♦
“You are not Angus,” Skena stated flatly.
The man facing her was a shade taller and narrower through the chest. At this close range, she judged him to be younger, mayhap ten years or so. Aye, he was not Angus, despite wearing clothing that belonged to her dead husband. Skena shifted her eyes to Dorcas, imagining how he got them. He had been sheltering in the woods, with her dear half-sister supplying him food, clothing, information on the comings and goings of Craigendan, and even opening the postern gate for his mummeries as a ghost.
“Where are my children? What have you done with them?” Skena was frightened, her mind struggling to absorb the details of his presence, and what Dorcas and Ella were doing out here with him? She urgently needed to locate the children, and then find a way back to Craigendan and Noel.
“Safe. You shall see them anon.” He gave her an affable smile. “So few questions, Skena? Surely, you ponder who I am?”
Feeling her blood turn to ice, Skena pulled the mantle closer about her, glad of the warmth Noel’s gift provided. Noel, I need you. Her mind spoke the plea, hoping their bond was resilient enough to reach out to him. Mayhap Tamlyn or Aithinne might hold that power, but her abilities with the Kenning were so weak, only strong when she was touching Noel. Oh, how she wished she were touching him now!
“There be little need for me to ask who you are—Darach Fadden,” she answered with a regal tilt of her head. “I be Skena of Clan Ogilvie, one of the Daughters of Anne―a race of witchwomen, royally descended from the seven ancient houses of the Picts. Their blood flows through my body. You, being a Lowlander, might be unawares of our Highland ways and lore, but Ella and Dorcas ken these truths.” She slanted her eyes toward Ella, sensing she was the weakest link. Folk spake that the women of Ogilvie blood had eyes that reminded them of a cat’s. She hoped to play upon that superstitious fear.
Ella glanced to Dorcas, dawning unease upon her face. “’Tis true! Folk whisper some Ogilvie females have powers to change into a catamount nine times. Witches! Heard the Seanchaidh story about it ‘afore.”
Darach Fadden gave a lopsided smile and reached out, his fingers brushing Skena’s chin. “Here, puss...where are your―?”
Skena slapped his hand away, allowing her fingernails to cut into his wrist, deep enough to draw blood. She watched his smile broaden, though the warmth never reached his black eyes. The intense focus reminded her of that wolf she had faced the night she found Noel.
Darach lifted the inside of his wrist to his mouth and sucked away the droplets of red. “So…sweet puss does have claws. Then, I suppose we can dispense with formal greetings.”
Dorcas rocked back and forth on her feet, visibly cold. “Dispense with the mummery and be done with this! The weather be unfit for beasts.”
Her lips petulant, she made a snatch toward the edge of Skena’s mantle. Darach snagged her wrist, his large hand clapping about it hard. His breath vaporizing in the air, that hungry smile faded as he stared at her. His iron grip held her firm.
“I want her mantle. ’Tis warmer.” Dorcas lifted her head defiantly, but there was an unsure note to her voice.
“Make do with your lot, woman, and stop coveting your sister’s every breath,” Darach snarled. Yanking Dorcas to him, he hauled her up on tip-toes, nearly causing her to slip in the snow. “And never be so presumptuous as to order me about. Am I made clear?”
“Here now!” Ella complained, her gnomish face crinkling in confusion. “Leave her be. ’Tis that ‘un there―” She motioned toward Skena with a sweep of her arm.
He gave Dorcas a hard shove backward into Ella’s chest, seeing both women struggle not to fall. Glaring at her as if she were an idiot, he snapped, “Did you no’ hear what I just said to Lady Dorcas?”
Skena was unsure what was going on between these three. Obviously, Ella and Dorcas had been hiding him and aiding him all along. Only, she judged that Darach was suddenly seeing the two women as a liability. Mayhap that would work in her favor. Noel, surely, would have returned to Craigendan by now. Her absence, along with the children’s, would draw notice. Rowanne would know something was amiss. Noel would come for her; their tracks would be easy to follow in the snow. She glanced back toward the direction of the fortress. Fear dawning, she suddenly worried that was precisely what Darach wanted―for Noel to come after her. Trying to reason it out, she nearly jumped when he put a hand upon her and gave her a small push.
“Come, we needs must get out of the snow,” he said.
Skena resisted his guiding pressure. “Where do you take me?”
“To see your children, of course. Now move, sweet puss, before I lose patience with you, as well.”
Skena decided for the time being, she would go along with him. She had to see Annis and Andrew, assure herself they were safe. Then, she needed space to know what was best to do, figure what Darach hoped to achieve by all this mummery. The farther they walked, the heavier the snow came down, and despite knowing this area of her land, she was growing confused in which direction he was herding her. The only thing for sure in the blinding blizzard was the land had started to climb.
Finally, a dark finger rose against the white landscape, and she realized where he was heading―the old Pict broch, the one that would go to Elspeth when she wed. The place was sorely neglected, and had not been used since before her mother’s birth. Elspeth realized it would take a lot of work to restore to the level it would be a good home for her and her husband. Still, the master masons of the Picts built structures to last, and formed them to be unassailable. For centuries her ancestors had run to this circular stone fortification in times of war or invasion.
She paused at the foot of the knoll to glance up at the dry-stone structure, which dated back to the time of the Romans. Round and slightly tapering, it rose taller than nine men, designed to keep the people above the line of attackers. There had once been an outer defensive wall, but it had crumbled in places, and now lay mostly hidden under the blanket of snow. A faint hint of smoke curled from the chimney. Since she assumed the children were within, this brought a small measure of relief about their safety.
There was only one way to enter a broch from the outside, and that was through a cramped tunnel-style entrance. Skena felt the insistent shove at her back. Pausing to glare at Darach, she lifted her skirts and bent forward to duck down and go inside. Since her head would just clunk the top of the opening if she stood upright, she did not have to incline at the same angle a man would. Thus, the height of the walled, inner staircase did not make her feel as constrained. It was the breadth. The rough stones on either side dragged at her cape as she moved through the tight confines. A smile crossed her lips. Poor Ella would find herself in a fat man’s squeeze! She finally passed under the opening channel, ingeniously built so defenders could stand on a platform above and thrust spears downward on invaders, who in turn were unable to raise shields or wield their swords to defend themselves.
Dim light filled the central chamber provided by a single torch, as blocks of peat burned in the ancient stone fireplace. Skena cried out and rushed forward as she saw Muriel huddled next to the hearth on a pile of furs, with Andrew and Annis on either side of her. Protectively, her cloak was curled around them to add its warmth to their small bodies. They were just barely visible.
Skena rushed to her dear friend, and knelt before her, hugging her. When she pulled back, she saw tears filled Muriel’s eyes. At first, she thought there was a smudge of black on her cheek. She reached out to rub it away with her thumb, then hesitated. It was a bruise. Someone had hit Muriel, hard.
“Who―” she began.
Muriel’s hand reached out and gripped Skena’s wrist with amazing strength. “Never you mind. ’Tis other things more important now. I be fine. Do no’ fash, lass.”
The children looked up with glassy eyes at Skena, obviously warm in their nest provided by Muriel they had drifted off to sleep. She patted their sweet cheeks and then put her finger to her lips to silence them, as from behind her, voices were raised. She lifted her eyebrows in question, asking them if they understood and would obey. Both gave her a faint nod.
“How much longer, Darach? Enough of these games.” Dorcas harangued in a shrill tone that set Skena’s teeth on edge.
Darach reached out and slapped her. Not hard, but forceful enough to cause her sister to back up, and put her hand to her cheek, rubbing it. She eyed him with growing hatred, a look that Skena had witnessed all too often over the years. She remained unsure what Darach planned, but secretly was pleased to see that Dorcas was not so delighted with Darach’s high-handedness. It might work in her favor at some point, though she would never place trust in Dorcas deliberately aiding her in any fashion.
“I will no’ warn you again—shut your mouth, Dorcas.” He wagged his pointed finger at her face.
“Here…help me,” Ella complained, loudly. While she was short enough to move through the narrow passage without stooping, her square body had become lodged between the two inner walls of the staircase.
Skena swallowed her laughter, as Dorcas worked to tug Ella loose by pulling on her hair. For a moment, she feared the woman might be stuck, and they would all be trapped here until Noel found them and put a boot to Ella’s broad backside. She supposed her distant ancestors never considered they could trap themselves within through such a bizarre manner! Then suddenly, Ella’s squat body jerked free from the stones. She and Dorcas, arms akimbo, tumbled onto the stone floor.
Skena could not help it—the chuckle slipped out. Under the dim torchlight, they made such a bizarre sight, sprawled in the middle of the floor, like some mythical monster with two heads, and four arms and legs. Ella bellowed out in pain, thrashing about.
“Me leg...me leg...you ungrateful wretch...you broke me anklebone.” She tried to lean forward to clutch it, but found it hard because of her fat belly and having to oust Dorcas from practically sitting on her.
Dorcas pushed up from the snarl of limbs and mantles and straightened hers, where the tie was almost strangling her neck. She glared at Skena, her mouth compressing in a frown, as she saw Skena silently chuckled at the silly sight. “I will give you something to wipe that smirk off your face, you stupid cow.”
In angry steps, she moved toward Skena, only to have Darach step before her to block her. He took hold of Dorcas’s forearm, looking down on her. Though Skena could not see his face, she sensed a coiling darkness within this man that terrified her. Whilst she never considered her sister very smart―cunning, yes, but not smart―even she would be able to tell this was a dangerous man, one not to trust.
“Darach, stop dragging everything out and have done with it. Now,” Dorcas said, but it was in a suggestive tone, not an order. Oh aye, whilst she was not too smart, neither was she stupid, she sensed something had altered with the man.
He shrugged. “My plans have changed.”
“How?” Dorcas braved a clear challenge with her question.
Dropping her hand, he stepped to the fire to warm himself. “I do no’ need your adder’s tongue to tell me how things will be. Keep your teeth closed.”
Skena did not want to know his plans, but she was not one to hide from things. At least, if she knew something of his mind, she could better prepare for what she must do. She swallowed to find her voice, wanting it to sound strong and assured, not a slip to reveal the mounting dread rising in her. “And what have you decided, Darach Fadden?”
He looked up flashing her a winning smile. “Why, to kill Noel de Servian. What else?”