Chapter Seven
The heart kens what the mind refuses to confess.
—Adrian Macgillivray
“Skena...”
She stirred in her dark slumber, unsure who was calling her or why. It had been a struggle to find her rest. Images of Noel de Servian kissing her had taunted her into the wee hours of the night, foolishly wanting what she could never have. She finally drifted off with a passel of questions chewing at the pit of her belly.
“Skena...” The call came again. Harsh. Raspy.
A moan of protest rose in her throat as she tried to climb out of the blackness of her mind. Despite every muscle in her body complaining, she forced herself to awaken. Something about the cry caused alarm to speed her blood from its night thickness. Sitting up, she shivered. Her stiff back protested. She had strained it trying to save the knight. A yawn came and went before she recalled she was on a sleeping pallet before the fireplace. Another shudder wracked her body, so she leaned over for a peat brick to place on the fire, making sure not to smother the low flames. Once it started to catch, she carefully added another.
“Skena...” This time the summons was weaker.
Pushing to stand, she realized her name had been called from the bed. De Servian. Her heart slammed up in her chest as she hurried to the bedside. He had half-kicked the covers off; even in the shadows she could see he was bathed with sweat. Clearly, he was not fully awake, his arms and legs thrashed against the covers.
“Skena…”
Something about his calling her name when he was not in his awakening mind touched her in a way she could not unriddle. She reached out and placed the back of her hand to his forehead and nearly flinched at the heat off his flesh. Moving her hand down to his chest, she checked if the rest of him burned as strongly with fever. This level of heat was dangerous.
“Noel.” Skena leaned over him and shook his shoulder.
The silver eyes popped open, but they looked up at her blankly, not really seeing her. This state terrified her. She had feared the sickness would come upon him. Now, the fight for his life would begin.
Skena started to pull her hand back, but his shot out and grabbed her lower arm in a grip that was near bruising. His stare finally seemed to focus upon her.
“Do not leave me,” came the harsh whisper.
With de Servian’s expression glazed, she wondered if he spoke to her, or in his feverish torment this was the child Noel, wanting his mother not to abandon him. Once again, she achieved that rare oneness with this man, taking his pain within her heart and making it her own.
“Skena…do not leave me. I do not want to die alone,” he gasped.
She placed her hand over his, where he gripped her lower arm. “Noel, ’tis the sickness from the cold. You be strong and no’ going to die. I will be here as long as you need. I must get some help, call for things I use to care for you. Do you understand?”
When Noel did not respond for so long, she feared the consuming heat possessed him too tightly in its grip. Auld Bessa spake that if unchecked the fever could burn out a man’s mind. Though she had assured him otherwise, the dark specter of losing de Servian gripped her soul. Finally, he gave a nod and his hand released her.
Skena stroked his cheek. “Rest easy, mo cridhe.” As the endearment was out of her mouth, she flinched. She had called him my heart. Holding her breath, she waited for his reaction, but only another shudder wracked his body. Most likely, he would not recognize the words. “Try to keep the covers over you. Your sweating turns cold if you kick them off.”
Rushing to the door, she jerked it open and nearly tripped over a body sleeping before the threshold. She righted herself by catching the doorframe before she fell. The large lump shifted as the covers rolled back.
“Galen?” she asked in surprise.
The old man tried to cough, nod and yawn at the same time, while awkwardly reaching for the dirk in his boot. “Trouble, Skena?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why do you sleep before the door? The floor be too cold for your aching bones.”
“Aye, ’tis the plain truth. I was no’ leaving you alone with that bloody Sasunnach,” he informed her. “He might split your gullet.” His eyes traveled over her in the thin night-rail, then he added, “Or worse.”
“Thanks for your protectiveness, dear friend, but you spent half a night on the cold floor for naught. You will be sick as he is if you do not stop such nonsense. I need more bedding, drying sheets, hot water, honey, oilcloths, and send one of the lads out for a pail of snow and another to fetch up more peat bricks.”
“Snow?” He rubbed his face. “Wha...ah, the fever came upon the warrior.”
Skena frowned. “Keep the faint tone of hopefulness out of your words, old man.”
“Why, Skena? Mayhap it be fortune’s hand? The will of the Auld Ones.” He folded up his pallet, his eyes never leaving hers. “What be so special about this English warrior?”
Helpless to explain, she turned her hands palms up. “I lack the ability to tell you. De Servian be special in a way I canno’ impart.” Hesitating, she questioned revealing all to him, but then decided mayhap it was best. “Aye, he be English, and I ken no’ why he has come...only...”
“Only?”
“The Kenning be strong—with him it sings clear and true. I saw his mind, his memories of when he was but a child,” she confessed, confused by this vital connection between them.
His head snapped back. “The Kenning has always been weak in you, Skena. Never before have you been able to reach out with the gift in that way. Why him? A bloody Sasunnach? This bodes ill. Mark my words.”
“Future’s path I canno’ foresee. Nonetheless, the fey bond exists. Keen. I can only accept it to mean that in some manner de Servian be different from other men. Important,” she defended.
Laying the rolled covers and pallet to the side of the wall, Galen gave a fatherly glower. “Sure you do no’ confuse the Kenning with desire? Pretty men can turn a maid’s head; though few are e’er worthy of trust. Everything in life comes to them too easily, Skena—especially women. Best you ponder upon that before you go fixin’ in your mind that this Lord de Servian be above all others, lass. You set yourself up for heartache.”
Skena felt as if she had taken a hit to her heart when he brought up women coming to de Servian effortlessly. Had she not fashed over these very thoughts only a short time ago? Still, it wounded her to hear someone else speak the same qualms. It made her feel hopeless, still a silly lass with dreams that refused to die.
“I fail to recall asking for your views on the English lord. I called for several items and the peat, water and snow to be fetched. Or shall I go do these things myself?”
Galen’s brows lowered at her scolding. “Go ahead, Skena, take the hide off my back with that sharp tongue of yours. Deep down you ken I be right. I will follow your orders. And I will be here with a shoulder for you to cry upon, lass, the day this pretty adder plays you false.” He shook his head at her as she opened her mouth to speak. “Hold the lady of the keep rebuke. ’Tis a waste of breath, and we both ken it. I go. I go.”
Skena spared but a glance at her elderly servant, shuffling down the hallway. It brought sadness that he disapproved of her actions concerning de Servian. Galen had always been so supportive of her in everything, first serving her lady mother and then her with complete loyalty. Worse, she knew the elderly man was being truthful, merely echoing her own worries about this English warrior and his coming to Craigendan.
Despite that, it did little to deter her from the path before her. De Servian’s fate was now twined with hers in some strange manner; the Kenning told her this to be a certainty. For good or ill, the coming of Noel de Servian was the will of the Auld Ones.
And there was naught to alter that.
♦◊♦
Earthy peat burned hot in the hearth, doing its best to dispel the wintry wind howling outside. The cold walked through the stone walls as if they were not there. It seemed strange. He burned with fever, the internal heat ravaging his mind, yet she forced the fire to consume precious peat at a high rate to the point it was uncomfortable for her.
“Fighting fire with fire,” she said under her breath.
As Skena looked down upon the handsome man, she shook—not from cold, but from fear her healing skills would not be enough to pull him back from the brink. Once a mind crossed over the bridge of Annwyn―the Otherworld of the Auld Ones―it took a powerful witch to craft a spell using dark words to hold tight to the soul. She had seen one or two alive, but not right in their head, no more awareness than a babe. Their body in this world, their mind had already moved on to the shadows of Annwyn, two halves of the same soul forever divided. She was not sure she was strong enough to fight for this man and win.
In a hastily tossed on kirtle with the sides still untied, Jenna hurried in with the oilcloths, extra bedding, rags and honey. “Water heats on the fire, in spite of Cook’s grumbling about being awoken at this hour. Owen fetches a bucket of snow as we speak.” She put the items down on the bench and then came to Skena where she was dabbing a wet cloth over his forehead. “How bad does he fare?”
“He worsens. When his calling awoke me, he still recognized me. Now...” Her shoulders gave a small shrug. “I grow worried. I wish Auld Bessa or Oonanne were here.”
When he suddenly began coughing, Skena winced. Thick fluid was building up in his chest, his breathing labored. Each passing breath saw de Servian growing sicker.
Weakly, he lifted his hand to touch her cheek. A feeble grin spread over his mouth. “Skena. I remember.”
“Good. Struggle to stay with me. You needs must fight this,” she begged, combatting the tears threatening to overwhelm her. She could not give in to them. She needed all her wits to win this coming battle.
Skena’s head whipped around as Owen came in with a large pail of snow. He carried the bucket to the table and set it on the floor beside it. “Hope this be enough, Skena. I will fetch more as you need it.”
“Thank you. Go help Cook with the hot water.”
“Aye, I will.” He paused by her side. “Skena, I did no’ go outside the wall when I gathered the snow, but fetched it from beside the stable where it was clean. The horses were kicking up a fuss, especially that big white stallion belonging to your knight.”
“Why?” she asked, fear rising at the tone of his voice.
“Wolves. They were scratching at the postern gate, trying to dig their way under. Several. A pack, mayhap, from the sounds of it.” Owen stared at her with dark, troubled eyes. “’Tis just a thought—we could give them something to fight over. Kill one or two of them. Wait until they come close, then we could down them. Let the horde feast upon their own. Then they wouldst leave us be.”
She almost echoed the we in question. What he suggested was she would kill the wolves as the animals ventured close. None of Craigendan’s women were good enough with the bow to hit a wolf and fell him. Galen no longer could pull the bowstring with enough force to bring a beast down, and Owen had trouble seeing well at distances.
Everything always fell upon her shoulders. Skena closed her eyes to hold tight against her rising dread. Not one wolf, this time she would be dealing with the pack. Unsummoned, images flashed through her mind of the black wolf jumping for her throat, the smell of his blood as it splashed her face. A nightmare to face that terror again. Even so, she had little choice. If the wolves were digging their way into the compound, they would have to be stopped by one means or another.
Keeping her counsel, she did not want to tell the boy she formed a similar idea, but a different outcome. Mayhap they could create a blind and lure one or two wolves in at a time into the outer ward, drop them as they entered the pen. As she had told them before, meat was meat. Why should the wolves have a full belly and her people go hungry? Desperate times made for desperate deeds. Somehow, it seemed the only reasonable alternative. In one single effort, she would be removing the threat of the wolves, but in a manner that helped Craigendan’s people, as well. Another of life’s hard choices she was now forced to make.
Still, she was not going to reveal her forming thoughts to Owen. The lad could never keep a secret behind his teeth if he tried. Should she tell him she planned on luring the wolves inside the outer bailey, with designs of seeing them in the stew pot, it would be on every set of lips in the whole bloody fortress before dawnbreak. Her way, the people would warm to the scent of a hot hash without fashing overly about where the meat came from.
“Let me get through this crisis. Then, I will sort out marauding wolves. Tell Galen to set someone to guarding the gate. We canno’ afford to have them dig their way under the door before I can address the matter. Alert those on the wall to keep a sharp eye and ear. The pack might find another corner to tunnel under since they have started looking for weak spots.”
“Aye, Skena.” He gave her a nod and hurried off.
Going to the table she took a large rag and folded it in half. She scooped two handfuls of the snow from the bucket and piled it at the center of the material. Then, she folded the cloth over itself twice, thus it was cold, yet the ice would not touch his flesh. She had to drop his fever fast, but dare not apply the snow directly to his skin because of the earlier exposure. It could deepen any previous damage.
“De Servian, can you hold on to me and raise up just a bit?” She tried to help lift him. The man was a dead weight, so solid was his muscle.
The coughing halted as he offered her a weak grin. “Noel.”
That brought a smile to Skena. “Ah, so your thoughts remain with me. I need you to sit up just a wee bit. I want to put an oilcloth over the pillow so this will not soak the bedding. Then, I will apply this cold press to the back of your neck. Can you lift up?”
He started coughing again, but nodded. Even as sick as he was, he showed amazing strength in holding on to her and pulling up as she asked. She quickly slid the cloth over the pillow, and then formed the covered snow to his neck, finally easing him back.
“C-cold,” he complained.
She patted his arm where he still clutched hers. “Oh, aye. I will only keep it there for a short spell each time. It will help combat the fever.”
He offered her a faint nod, but already she could see his teeth starting to chatter.
“Jenna, mix some snow with the water in the bowl on the table. Only a little. I don’t want it too cold. Enough to see if we can break the fever.”
His grip tightened on her arm. “Do...not...leave me.”
De Servian’s plea ripped through her heart. “Rest easy. I shall stay.”
Skena worked until the first light of dawn broke over the cnoc of Leith Crioch.
Her fingers grew stiff, her knuckles ached from wiping down his body with the frigid water. After the heat raging his flesh finally dropped, he would begin shivering again, and then slowly the fever would return to his body. To help with the chest rattle, she mixed a tansy of comfrey, white willow bark, mullen, elderberries, and angelica. Though he protested, he did drink it down. De Servian was still very sick, but she felt a spark of hope in that he was a strong man, a warrior used to hardships. He could fight this. He had to.
“Please let him fight this,” she wished more than once to the Auld Ones.
As exhaustion creaked through her body, she dried his chest and limbs, and then wrapped Noel in several blankets. He seemed more peaceful. The shudders were not as severe when they came upon him. The fever failed to spike as high. His eyelids were shut, and he finally seemed to be sleeping, so she wanted to seize the chance to lie down for a short spell, before the fortress came alive with the day’s activities. There was always so much to do, and everyone would come wanting her to solve each and every problem. She was tired. She merely wanted to close her eyes for a short time.
As Skena turned to seek her pallet before the fire, de Servian’s hand grabbed her arm again. His breathing was labored, raspy, but in a loose fashion that said he fought the illness. “Skena...do not leave me...I do not wish to die alone.”
“Och, you think I worked through the night just to see you die? Hush. You be sick, but you are a strong man. Please sleep. Allow your body to rest.”
As she started to turn away, his grip tightened. “Please.”
“I watch over you, Noel.” Skena took the cloth, dabbing at the sweat beaded on his brow. “You are no’ alone.”
“You called me Noel.” He started to grin, but another round of coughing wracked him, though the sounded moist, not dry and hacking. As long as that was the case, she knew his body was winning the battle against the ill-humors.
Sighing, she looked longingly to the pallet and then shrugged. She crawled up on the bed and scooted to where she could sit next to him, reassure him she was still there. With her back against the bed’s headboard, she pulled her knees to the side and then tugged a cover over them. “I shall be here, as long as you wish.”
“Talk...to...me,” he said in gasps. “Tell me...about Craigendan. What is it...like come springtide?”
“’Tis green. Most days the fog lifts and the sky is bright and clear, almost blinding. Other times the haar rolls in and hovers near the ground, almost as if they are old souls who have not made the journey to Annwyn.”
“Haar?” he asked.
“’Tis what we call mist and fog.”
Taking her hand, he gave it a squeeze. “Tell me more...”
Skena spoke of how the land awakened after a wintry spell, of the beauty of the rugged countryside. Talked until she could not recall what she spoke of. Eventually, her legs grew stiff and she stretched them out. Then, later her head drooped in exhaustion, and she slept, her arm curled around de Servian.
“Noel,” she whispered on a soft sigh.