Chapter Thirty-Three
All lies are revealed when the mask is removed.
—Iain Montgomerie Ogilvie
Noel reined Brishen to pause at the crest of the rise. Stamping the ground and fighting against the bit to run, the destrier snorted streams of vapor into the moist air. Off in the distance, he could see Craigendan aglow from torch lights, quite beautiful in the pristine snowscape. Contrarily, his stomach twisted into knots comprehending what it meant. Something was wrong. The whole time he raced homeward, he fought the gnawing fear that trouble had, once more, reared its sinister head. Somehow, he sensed Skena needed him. He prayed these worries were naught more than insecurities brought on by how deeply he loved her. Once he reached the fortress, surely, she would be waiting to comfort him and laugh that everything was fine. The torches illuminating the boulevard bespoke his worse fears were confirmed―danger once more stalked Craigendan.
Slapping the reins against the stallion’s neck, he drove Brishen onward.
Images of when he had returned to the fortress and discovered Skena at the bottom of the cellars stairs haunted him. Guillaume held the belief that Noel had foiled an attempt on her life. He shuddered to consider the outcome if he had not come back sooner than expected. He told these dark visions be gone. Only, memories of the night when she had nearly gone over the edge of the crenellation refused to be banished. More than a fortnight had passed since anything had happened. Now dread filled him of what might await him at the dun.
“Demon hobgoblins, away with you,” he whispered the banishment. “Skena is fine.” Noel had to draw heavily on his warrior’s training to focus on the here and now, and not allow his mind to become his undoing.
The gate rose when the watchman spotted him riding hard, allowing Noel to pass through and into the bailey without slowing. His eyes noticed the numerous torches along the boulevard and ballium. It would have been quite festive if not for their dawning significance. He spotted the beautiful Rowanne on the end of the portico, but no Skena. Her pale blue mantle gently undulated in the wind, her hands clutched together in a pose of worry.
Vaulting from the saddle, he noticed no one was about to take Brishen’s reins. Instead, he dropped the lead to the ground, knowing the horse would stay as he had been trained to do. “What has happened?” he asked, running up the stone stairs.
Rowanne hurried over to meet him. “We canno’ find Skena or the children. Or Muriel. We looked. I have the servants searching everywhere.”
“How long?” he snapped.
Her soft brown eyes expressed concern, and mayhap a trace of guilt. “I be unsure. Earlier, we were working in the sewing room. The children came in and asked permission to go to the portcullis to wait for your return. Skena told them they could walk out and see if you were back, but not to stay outside because of the cold. She started to follow after them, only Ella―”
“Ella?” he snorted. “I mislike judging a person on their form—as God fashioned them thus ’tis not my place to be critical. Only, she evokes tales of otherworldly beings to my mind, evildoers. She is a malignant troll in human guise. If that is wrong of me to harbor such thoughts, I shan’t tend an apology. ’Tis my gut’s opinion.”
Rowanne gave a concurring nod. “She came to Skena and complained of being sick, had her fix a tansy. Afterward, Skena spoke she was anxious about the children and went out to check on them. I withdrew to my room to dress for the evening meal. ’Twas the last time I saw her.”
Noel’s mouth compressed into a frown. Taking off the leather gauntlets, he slapped them against his thigh in frustration. “When was that?”
Her eyes strayed past him. “Where is Guillaume? Why be he not with you? Out jesting with his men instead of here when you need―” Her words broke off as Guillaume rode through the gate followed by two men-at-arms.
Noel was standing two steps below Rowanne. Irritated by her harshness toward his friend, he moved up to the same level, allowing his height and breadth to intimidate her. Rowanne was a tall woman, likely as tall as most Scotsmen, so outside of Guillaume she was unused to looking up at a man. He stood close, using his physical presence to rattle her. She lifted her head in a royal mien, trying to show he failed with the subtle pressure. This woman was warrior born, just like Skena. But then her chin betrayed her, quivering. Noel blinked in shock. She was actually scared of him.
“That man you so blithely disdain is one of the best men you will ever find. If you lack the mind to see that and cannot count your blessings, then tell Challon. He shall find you another husband. Set Guillaume free. I shan’t have him hurt any more by your cruel ways. Am I made clear?”
She stared at him, refusing to back away, despite trying to shield her female skittishness. He saw a contrite flicker in her beautiful eyes, but he could spare her no time. This issue was not over. They would have at it again—once Skena and the children had been found.
“What goes on?” Guillaume came rushing up the steps.
“Skena—I fear she is no’ inside Craigendan’s curtain,” Rowanne told him. “I missed her, and went to find her. She was just...gone.” She waved her hands in the air, having no explanation. “The children have vanished. Muriel, as well. I have everyone searching.”
From across the yard, Elspeth came running. Nearly out of breath when she reached them, she could not speak her tides. Noel knew he would have to wait until she regained air. His hands flexed to prevent him from grabbing her and shaking the words out of the young woman.
“Beg pardon, my lord. Tracks...lead away from the dun.” She paused to suck in air before going on. “At first, we could no’ see that they left through the postern gate. Someone took branches and brushed the snow to hide the footprints. Only, Galen decided to hunt farther out, and spotted where they ceased trying to hide them. He sent me back to raise alarm. He follows. It looks as though Skena and the children walked away from the castle. Mayhap Muriel went with them, or was following. He said a tracker wouldst be able to tell more.”
“God’s teeth! Why wouldst Skena be out in this storm with the children―” Noel fumed to Guillaume. “’Tis not like her.”
Elspeth looked up at him with worried eyes. “There be others, too, Lord de Servian.”
“Others?” He swung back to her.
“More tracks.” She wrung her hands before her chest. “Galen said tell you two, maybe three sets belonging to women or boys, but another be a man. He follows them with Kenneth. He told me hurry.”
Guillaume let out a snort. “God’s wounds, half the bloody castle is outside the pale in a blizzard! What nonsense be this? Is anyone else missing, Elspeth?”
“Ella and Dorcas be gone, also.” Elspeth’s face clouded, as she looked from Guillaume and then back to Noel.
“Perchance they went after Skena, to help her search for the children?” Rowanne suggested.
“If you believe that, Lady Rowanne, then you are a bigger fool than I already suspect you to be.” Noel did not take the time to hear her answer, but hurried back to Brishen. Leading the horse across the bailey, he headed toward the stables.
“Noel, wait! Take time to prepare,” Guillaume called from behind him. “We need torches. Night falls. It will be impossible to follow without lights.”
“Fine! Gather torches,” he called over his shoulder, but did not slow. “Have Rowanne prepare whatever else we need. A wagon full of furs, warming stones. Tell cook to keep hot water in the ready and warm stew.”
He eased Brishen through the postern gate, pulling up as he spotted a muddle of tracks. “Bloody bleeding hell.”
Footprints were upon footprints. Some had obliterated the ones that had passed before, and there was clear evidence of a person dragging pine branches to hide what had happened. Galen’s set clearly followed along one side and Kenneth’s to the other. Noel knelt in the fading light of the gloaming to study the prints closer. He could just make out the children had passed this way, with a woman. Skena? A female followed those, and someone followed her. Then, a larger set came from the north.
The man.
The heavy snow was nearly filling in the impression. Within a short time, it would be impossible to tell anything about who passed this way. As he looked ahead on the narrow trail, his blood turned cold. He saw what was clearly a struggle. A female had been pushed, then a few steps more it was obvious she was being dragged.
Skena! Noel knew with a certainty. Skena needed him. He felt it. As if her mind brushed against his. He took off at a run.
“Noel, wait!”
Noel heard Guillaume calling after him, but he did not slow.
♦◊♦
Skena’s legs nearly buckled under her, stunned by Darach stating the very thing she had come to suspect―his purpose was to kill Noel. To revenge his brother’s death? Somehow she doubted that. But then, she knew so little of the man. Angus had planned to foster Andrew with Darach for training, howbeit Skena had put up a battle, which she won. Her children were one of the few joys she had in the loveless marriage, she intended on keeping them close and trying to see their lives followed a happier path than she had been forced to endure.
The man before her was a stranger. She had never met him. Yet, he looked so much like Angus when he was younger that it was chilling. Instinct was to prod, learn the bent of his mind, yet cold dread filled her soul to where she was unable to think. Pushing the impulse aside, she tried to gather her thoughts.
When she said naught, he turned away, and set about to prod the fire to give more heat.
He had done nothing to restrain her, judging she would never leave Muriel or the children behind. The defensive design of the broch protected the round fortress from sudden entry. It also saw it would be nearly impossible for them to escape. Even if she could manage to get away, how far could she get with two children and an aging woman in a snowstorm? He would run them to ground in a thrice.
Skena ran choices through her mind. For the nonce, biding time was for the best. Noel would follow their tracks to the broch. If he foolishly entered he would be exposed to an attack without a chance of defense. Noel may not know how a Pictish broch was constructed and would be unprepared to face the narrow defensive entry, why Darach chose to use the old tower as a trap—with the children and her as his bait. The only weapon she carried was her sgian dubh, tucked in at her waist. Fearful he might discover it, she carefully shifted the small knife under the cover of her mantle until it was snug against her back.
Moving off to the shadowy far corner of the chamber, as large as a Great Hall, Ella grumbled to Dorcas, their words too low for Skena to hear. ’Twas evident, Ella was unhappy with Darach’s attitude toward them, yet both were canny enough to keep their distance.
After the fire was stoked, he sat down on furs piled near the fireplace. Taking up a whetstone, he pulled his long knife from his boot and began to sharpen it. After several strokes against the edge, he glanced up at the two women huddled and murmuring, to one side of the fireplace. His dark brow furrowed, but then he shrugged, unconcerned. ’Twas plain to Skena he was going to carry out his plans, and they would have little bearing on his decisions.
“May as well settle down and stay warm, Skena MacIain,” he suggested. “We might have a long wait because of the snowstorm.”
“Skena de Servian,” she corrected.
He looked up at her with cold, assessing eyes. “You took his name. That surprised me. You never took the Fadden name. What does that say about you?”
She moved to where Muriel cuddled the children, kneeling before them to reassure herself they were unharmed. “What does it say about me? Clan rule stated I needs must bear the MacIain name to claim Craigendan. We now have an English king. He says the charter belongs to de Servian. Clan law no longer applies to me,” she spun the white lie.
“But no’ the whole reason, eh?” He gave her a lazy half-smile. “You be taken with your English husband, warm to him. I watched you. No’ that I blame you—with Angus flaunting that one,” he inclined his head toward Dorcas, “before your face. A burr under your saddle, you being a proud woman, eh? Goes without saying—Angus was no’ a smart man. Any man with a lady wife such as you wouldst treat her with the respect she deserves, count themselves blessed indeed. My brother foolishly remained content with the meager holding and with the few coins Craigendan fetched. With a woman like you—royal blood of the Picts flow through you—a man could see this fortress made powerful, many alliances formed. A good life could be had here.”
A shiver crawled up her spine and over her skin, and it had naught to do with the draft in the broch. Darach almost sounded like a swain, attempting to win her favor. The prospect caused bile to roil through her.
Figuring it best to let him think she was too scared to force a confrontation, she quietly moved to cuddle against Muriel. Shifting the children between them, she whispered murmurs of assurance. She kissed their foreheads, then a faint smile crossed her lips. They were not so much asleep, but scared and smart enough to keep still until they knew what to do. By pulling her mantle across them, she and Muriel could share their body heat and keep the little ones warm. She kissed Muriel’s cheek. With a sad smile, and tears in her eyes, she leaned her head against Skena’s. Whilst she little wished her friend to be involved in this ugliness, she was glad Muriel had been here for the children. Annis waited until they were settled and then she rolled between them to where she could cuddle to Skena, her thin body trembling. At the soothing stroke of Skena’s hand over her hair the shaking lessened.
Skena watched Darach working on the knife. He was preparing for the battle to come. Readying himself to kill Noel. Once the dirk was honed, he put it back inside the cross-laced boot of his right leg. Next, he worked on a small knife, before tucking it back into the sheath on his belt. There was a deliberate stillness within him that brought dread to her heart, a focus that belongs to the predators in nature.
She felt the pull of the Kenning ripple through her, as he held the knife up to study its edge. In a merging of the images, she saw when she walked in Noel’s mind, how close he had come to dying because of Angus. Within her mind’s eyes that vision wavered, shimmering before her eyes so it was now Darach’s hand stabbing Noel in the back. She blinked several times, hoping to banish the horrible sensation that burned at the pit of her belly.
“Lady Skena, you watch me,” Darach said, then offered her a soft smile. “Mayhap you see differences between my brother and me? Naturally, I be younger by ten summers. Taller as well, and not as thickly formed. They say Angus was the image of our father. That bullishness was blunted within me because I took after my beautiful mother. Dorcas thinks I be prettier. What sayeth you?”
Skena could see a softer beauty to his brown eyes, surrounded by long lashes. They must come from the mother. Oh, aye, on the surface he would draw women, a handsome man, indeed. Yet, the surface was where the two men’s likeness ended. Angus did wrong in attacking Noel; it was a cowardly act, but one of a man driven to the end of his rope in battle. In most everything else, Angus never meant ill toward anyone. Oh aye, he had been careless of Skena’s feelings, but then, she felt her lack of love for him played a part in that. And oft, he hurt Annis by his indifference, but there had never been malicious in his deeds. He would never hit an old woman or terrify children.
A ravenous hunger coiled within Darach Fadden, pushing him to acts that branded him evil, a coward.
He reached up with the razor-sharp blade, and slowly began to dry shave the dark whiskers from his face. Pausing with one side done, he wiped the blade on his pants’ leg. “You seem to prefer Lord de Servian’s clean face.” He continued scraping away the remainder of his beard.
Skena almost recoiled as if she had been slapped. She blinked trying to hide the reaction. Darach sought to win her approval! Her mind raced with the implications. The only reason he would bother to do that—he planned to keep her after killing Noel! She had not realized she was clenching and unclenching her fist under the mantle, until Muriel gripped her arm and squeezed, silently counseling to rein in her reactions. Batting her lashes to give space to reform her expression, she met his intense stare with blankness. She was not a good enough mummer to feign interest in this man who had terrorized her, and yet now decided she would be willing to accept him in Noel’s place.
“You have plans, Sir Darach?” she asked casually, as if nothing weightier than how was the weather. She tamped down on the words rising in her throat. They would only serve to worsen her position.
He offered her that wolf’s grin. “I told you my plans, Lady Skena.”
“Not all of them,” she countered.
Glowering, Ella prodded Dorcas with her elbow. “I warned you…did you hear me? Nay. She uses them witch ways on him.”
Dorcas glanced from Darach to Skena, mistrust and resentment marring her face. Also, her pride refused to consider Darach might want Skena instead of her. “Must you drag all this out? Playing games wastes time. Be done with this,” she harangued Darach with the sharp edge of her tongue.
Skena witnessed worry in her sister’s brown eyes, fear that Darach’s shifting ideas were not going to include her. She wanted to prod him to act before he changed his mind.
“Och, you sicken me, Dorcas. I have nay idea how I gave birth to a malignant creature such as you. Curse the day I pushed you from my body and you drew a breath. You be naught but a changeling—some swort being the Fae refused to accept,” Muriel spake, revulsion and scorn clear in her soft grey-green eyes.
Skena slowly reached out with her fingers until she found her friend’s lower arm, hoping to restrain Muriel’s temper. Time was passing. Noel would be coming. Little would be served if she provoked Dorcas.
Ella laughed, the harsh barking sound echoing against the stone walls. “Changeling, you say? Little ken how right you be.” Her dull grey eyes held a gleam of triumph. Something else lurked as well―madness. “Always thought yourself so beautiful—with your long red hair. Better than the rest of us ’cause the Auld Ones blessed you with a comeliness that turned a man’s eye. Only, common born you were, no’ good enough to take to wife, nay matter how pretty you be. So, The MacIain made you his whore. Why shouldst you look down your nose for Dorcas doin’ same thing her mama did? Well, swallow this—you ain’t her màthair. Never were.”
Muriel looked to Skena, confusion in her eyes. She, too, saw Ella was not sane. Her hand closed over Skena’s, clutching for assurance. “You have tides you wish to impart, old woman?” she asked.
Dorcas’s face clouded, confused. Putting her hands on her hips, she came to stand near the fire seeking its warmth. “What mean you―she no’ be my màthair? Are you daft? All ken I be The MacIain’s daughter.”
All eyes were on Ella, and she seemed quite happy to be the center of attention. “Time you ken the truth. The lot of you. All these years I kept secrets to my chest. Nonce, I have my say and my laugh. Dorcas ain’t your spawn, you stupid female. She be flesh of my flesh.”
Eyes wild with hatred, Dorcas nearly lunged at Ella.
His knife still in his hand, Darach jumped to his feet coming between the two women. “What are you blethering about, stupid old woman?”
“Stupid, be I? I kept the truth. Plain and simple. None of you e’er guessed. Muriel ne’er birthed Dorcas. She be my get.” She stuck her chin up defiantly, and proudly thumped her fat bosom.
Shaking her head, Dorcas recoiled from the words. “You lie! Crazy old woman. I should never have trusted you.”
“Crazy, eh? Night Muriel went into birthing pains, old Jenny the midwife knockin’ at me door. ’Twas no’ her time, she cried—still a moon and mayhap more before the babe were to come. Jenny were scared. Something were wrong with the bairn. She wanted to send a rider for one of the Three Wise Ones of the Woods. Only, a fierce gale blew and ’twas no’ safe to leave Craigendan. Turned out, Jenny were right. Muriel had a hard time pushin’ the child out, turned wrong it were. Nearly died in the effort. Poor thing lived, but no’ for long. During the night it drew its last breath. ’Twas the will of the Auld Ones. A scant sennight ‘afore my bairn had come. My babe wouldst get a better life as daughter of Muriel the Whore, than Ella the swine girl. Switched them, I did. Killed Jenny to keep the bitch’s mouth shut. The babe I brought into this world had thick red hair. None e’er guessed Dorcas was no’ yours, Muriel.”
“Lies!” Dorcas screamed in rage, and slapped out against Ella’s shoulder. “Say you lie!”
Surprised, Ella fell back a step. “Truth be out—stark and bald, aye.”
“You knew this?” Darach grabbed Dorcas by the arm and spun her to face him. “If anyone has heard lies, ’tis me. How you were the rightful daughter of The MacIain, that if Skena were gone, you could claim Craigendan. Whole time, ’twas naught but a wagon load of shite you were shoveling.”
“I never lied to you, Darach. The old woman be crazy, I tell you. Turn a deaf ear to her mindless blethering,” Dorcas pleaded frantically.
“’T’aint madness! ’Tis truth, I spake,” Ella insisted stubbornly.
“Och, if this be no’ a twist of a screw! You kenned!” Darach accused Dorcas, pointing the knife in a playful manner, yet with a veiled menace, toward the spot between her breasts. “Never trust a woman. Fool be he who trusts two!”
Skena watched Dorcas knock the knife away, and then the three exploded into a roaring argument. Her fingers tightened on Muriel, worried how this was affecting her friend. Age had taken its toll on the lovely woman. Secretly, Skena wanted to laugh. For years, Muriel bore the shame of Dorcas’s behavior, as if it were her fault. Not only was she absolved of that burden, it also meant Dorcas was not her half-sister. “Good comes of even foul situations,” Skena said under her breath.
Dorcas rounded on Ella, furious. She always relished being the daughter of the laird, imagining she was as good as Skena. Now Ella had told her she was the daughter of some lowborn serf and a swine girl. Dorcas had no claim on Craigendan, and it was not setting well with her. Her face was red, angrier than Skena had ever seen her.
“She pukes lies, I tell you!” Dorcas’s voice grew higher, shrill.
Darach shot her a disgusted look. “Neither of you wouldst ken the truth if it marched, pennons flying down High Street in Londontown, and bit you in the fat arses!”
“It little matters, Darach. Think!” Dorcas was exasperated and clutching at straws. “Whether the old woman tells the right of it or no’, folk here ken me to be daughter of The MacIain. ’Tis all they care.”
Skena spoke up, raising her voice to be heard over the din, “Dorcas could never stand in the ring of stones on Lochshane Tor and give oath. She wouldst have to stand before Evelynour of the Orchard and declare her right to rule this land was true. None can lie to Evelynour. She be gifted with second-sight. She wouldst ken the lies and dark deeds in your heart.”
“Enough!” Darach thundered. “You and that malevolent gnome of a woman get to the corner and keep there. Do not push me. Shut your lying mouths and speak no’ another word, lest it go foul for you.”
“Do no’ give me orders,” Ella barked, whipping out a small knife. “Everythin’ goes as planned―”
Darach smiled. Then, he moved so fast, Ella had no time to blink. He grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, yanking it at an odd angle. Ella screamed out, flaying around with her free hand trying to get some hold on him. Darach jerked the knife from her plump little fingers, and then put his booted foot to her backside, sending her reeling across the stone floor to crash into the wall. She lay there in a twisted lump, unmoving.
Annis pushed her body tighter against Skena, and whispered in a taut voice, “Mama, I am scared.”
Skena leaned forward and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “Do no’ fash. Noel will come soon.”
Beware, Noel, beware, her mind whispered, hoping the Kenning was strong enough for him to hear her warning.