Chapter Nine
Step into the fire and embrace the dragon...
—Adrian Macgillivray
“Skena! Come quick!” Elspeth called as she rattled into the Hall, her frail frame scarcely able to bear the heavy mail and armaments she wore. The baldric about the girl’s chest swung loosely, nearly causing her to be tripped by the sword clunking around her. Shoving the sheath to her side, she removed the too-large helm and pushed her sandy-colored hair back from her worried face. “Riders come through the pass. Mayhap a score. What e’er shall we do?”
“Och, not bloody Duncan Comyn again? You wouldst think the lackwit smart enough to stay by fireside with the snow up to his arse and leave us in peace.” Skena exhaled irritation at the prospect of facing him again. “What I did no’ need this day.”
She was tired, hungry and short-tempered. Three days of tending de Servian saw her worn down, and in little mood to deal with any man—particularly one by the name of Comyn. She had come belowstairs to eat, and then hoped to curl up on her pallet and rest before she collapsed.
“Nor any other time,” Muriel said, setting aside the basket of wool she was preparing to spin. “Bloody amadán seizes upon the storm as a reason to come sniffing around Craigendan again. I mislike Comyn’s so-called caring over your welfare, Skena. He watches you in a way that rubs against the grain.”
“Aye, like a half-starved wolf he prowls the border of late, conjuring excuses so he can turn up at the drop of a pebble. Always with a logical explanation for his visit, always so solicitous,” Skena agreed with Muriel’s opinion.
“Mark words, lass, a Comyn ne’er did aught to help another soul. Those wolf eyes view Craigendan—and you—as his next meal.” Muriel clucked her tongue and shook her head. “He ain’t the knave his brother Phelan was, true, but I still hold no shred of trust for this man. And neither should you.”
Skena huffed a dry chuckle. “I wouldst sooner cuddle an adder to my breast.”
Muriel nodded. “Nary a tear was shed when Phelan Comyn drew his last breath nearly five months past, even if it were by an English hand, as some say. Not sure if many would spill ones for Duncan either. Still, best beware in handling that one, lass.”
Duncan Comyn’s continued interest in Craigendan unsettled Skena. She feared he had already twigged out how few men were within the curtain and merely waited for their female weakness to see them at their most vulnerable before he made his move. A shiver crawled up her spine at the image of that ever coming to pass.
“Nay! ’Tis no’ Comyn.” Elspeth shook her head. “English come―bearing standard of the Black Dragon. Snowdrifts see them moving slowly up the grade, but they will reach here anon.”
“The Black Dragon?” Rattled by the news, Skena nearly dropped the earthen pitcher she held. With an unsteady hand she carefully placed it on the trestle table, next to the boughs of evergreens and holly they were preparing as decorations for the Yule celebration. She could not let others see how the tides troubled her. Biting back the flare of bile rising in her stomach, she asked with a calm she failed to feel, “The Earl Challon comes?”
“I canno’ say if it be the earl hisself, but ’tis his pennon― green dragon on a field of black. Stands out against the snow. Either he comes, or sends a messenger in his stead.” Elspeth set the helm down on the end of the table. “Oh, Skena, why now? Why does the dark lord come? Only something of great import wouldst surely drag him out in these drifts. The Earl has paid little heed to Craigendan since he became the new lord of Glenrogha. Outside of the Dragon taking Angus’s homage back in the spring―”
“Which my lord husband imprudently broke his troth nary a week later by going to fight the English at Dunbar.” That fact had caused Skena deep misgivings, leaving her with many a sleepless night since May and word of the Scottish defeat came. Whispers of awe and fear told even hard-bitten men dared not cross the Earl Challon and live to boast about it. Damn Angus and his foolish stubbornness!
Well, Angus was dead; there would be no punishment to rain down upon his obdurate head. Craigendan, her children, and ultimately, she would bear the backlash of his thoughtless choices. She had begged Angus to stay out of the coming fight, allow the nobles to carry on their heedless politics and war. Craigendan was best served by their men staying home and protecting what little they had. But nay, Angus had to ride to the Comyn standard. Not listening to her, he argued the time had come for Scots to stop petty clan squabbles and stand together to drive the English back over the border. He feared Longshanks intended to bleed the country dry with taxes—or worse, parcel out Scottish fiefs to his English lackeys.
Later, she learned that neither Phelan nor Duncan had ridden to the call of their mighty cousins until the last hour; both since claimed they arrived too late to take part in the battle. Their lies little surprised her. Skena knew Duncan never looked a person square in the eye when he spoke of it. That had been the difference between the two brothers. Both were liars. Only, Phelan could stare you stone cold in the face, showing the countenance of an angel, whilst untruths spilled over his teeth. Duncan lied as easily as his older sibling, but he was unable to meet your eyes while speaking deceitful words. Skena figured knowing that quirk might someday work to her advantage.
Scant days after the Scottish defeat, Duncan had returned to deliver the tides that Angus had died in combat. Boasting that his brother and he were some of the few Scottish nobles left free in the aftermath, he said the biggest measure of the Scots aristocracy were in irons and sent south to England, or were dead. Word was upwards of five-hundred score Scots were killed on the field of Spottsmuir―a resounding rout. That would surely draw the ire of the English king.
Since the day that word had come, she awoke each morn, fearful—dreading the new earl of Glenrogha had decided Craigendan needed a new lord, a loyal English one. This fate had not ridden over the horizon. As sennights passed, she had breathed easier. Skena figured the mighty Black Dragon had deemed her keep too small of a concern to bother with. Reports unquestionably had reached his ears that Craigendan now had no master. Still, he had failed to pay the smallholding a visit during the summer months, not even after he and Tamlyn had returned from Parliament at Berwick, which the English king had called back in August.
Skena rubbed her forehead trying to keep the rising fears at bay, seeing all eyes in the Great Hall looking to her for reassurance. Well, she had none to spare. Summer had been wearisome, seeing the harvest wither and die from the drought. For weeks her people had labored to carry water from the burn, hoping to see the crops they needed thrived. The struggle had been a losing one. Too soon, it had turned to a desperate effort to fetch enough water just to see the animals lived.
Summonses had gone out for all Scots nobles and landholders, commanded to show themselves before Edward Longshanks and to sign documents of fealty and homage, or face being attainted. The English now laughed and called the document Ragman Roll. Luckily, Skena had received no such orders—possibly because her holding paid homage to the Earl Challon; he was already Edward’s man. In truth, she welcomed not having to travel to the city on the eastern coast. Her choice of staying had been a gamble. If she had shown her face at Berwick, immediate attention would have fallen upon the fact that her lord husband was dead—killed in rebellion against the English king. Thus ensuring the king would set a new man in Angus’s place. The powerful ruler would have sealed her fate then and there. She had not been called, so she would not go. The decision had been as simple as that.
Skena had heard the monarch did not set much store in Scots females holding lands and titles. Had he not commanded Challon to come claim Tamlyn and her honours? Were not the Lord Guillaume betrothed to her cousin Rowanne and the other brother, Destain, to wed Rowanne’s twin sister, Raven? Lord Ravenhawke was now husband to cousin Aithinne. None of these women e’er raised a hand against Edward Plantagenet, and yet their fate had been decreed according to his whims. How well would she have fared against this mighty ruler, when her husband had actually lifted his banner for the Scottish army and raised men to kill English soldiery?
Autumn came, and still, no one made a move against Craigendan. As no dire fate from the English had befallen her and her people, she considered applying to the Earl Challon for men to protect the fortress and to hunt for meat in deep winter, make him awares of the grim circumstances facing all in her smallholding. Just a little aid would mean such a difference in getting through this season. After all, he was not only their overlord, but now kinsman, a cousin by marriage.
What stopped her were the children. She feared what would happen to her, to them. Challon would likely place a man of his choosing as governor of the keep, possibly force her to marry, thus putting in jeopardy the rights of Andrew and Annis to this land. Worse, the English king was not above taking a child as hostage to ensure compliance. Thinking of them away in England, away from her protection, made her cry at night.
Mayhap ’twas only a matter of putting off the eventuality, but she had hoped they could muddle along until she came up with some acceptable solution to the predicament. Craigendan needed a lord, and a new lord it would soon get. She simply hoped this time to have a say in who would be her husband. She had always envied that right for the Ogilvie heiresses. She had Ogilvie blood in her veins, true, but not of the line that held the ancient charter from old King Malcolm, which saw Scottish and English kings alike honoring the decree.
“The skein of time has unraveled,” Skena said under her breath.
Tamlyn’s new husband would view the fortress as virtually undefended. Skena glanced at Elspeth, rigged out in mail and armor so she would appear a man when she strolled upon the boulevard of the curtain wall. Her stomach tightened, staring at her too thin kinswoman. She had little hope the women of the keep would fool the trained eye of this mighty lord. Julian Challon would never accept the current situation. While Craigendan was small and insignificant compared to the three vast fortresses belonging to the daughters of the Earl Kinmarch, it was key to protecting the back of Glen Shane. The Black Dragon would not permit that to go without remedy once he ascertained the situation.
Skena’s dread must have been reflected upon her face.
“Och, Skena, what shall we do?” The girl’s huge eyes filled with fear.
“We?” Skena echoed, feeling faint. There was never a we to help Skena bear the burdens or make decisions.
She fought the shudder snaking through her body. Mayhap she had been foolish to turn a blind eye to the realities of the bleak situation, waiting, instead of taking the dilemma in hand. She could have wed a man of her choosing, before either the earl or his king could seal her fate. Only, facing the prospects of another marriage to a man she did not love held little lure for her.
Her mind instantly conjured the image of Noel de Servian. So clear, it was almost as if he were standing there. Her insides twisted as the wanting slammed through her entire being.
“It does no good to make wishes as Andrew did. Fate has never been so kind to me,” Skena muttered, then blinked to banish his vision. Drawing a ragged breath, she forced a smile to bolster all watching her. “Elspeth, hie you to the wall. Alert our women on the curtain to keep their heads down, and stay away from the men coming in. Especially Dorcas. Tell her I will take a switch to her back if she dares lift her head to one. All must be about their watch, just as our men wouldst patrol. Leave me to deal with this bloody English dragon.”
Skena gave Elspeth’s arm a small squeeze, meant for comfort. Even through the sleeve of the padded jack the girl wore, she could feel how thin the lass was now. She flinched. Her cousin had never been a strong woman, and since losing her betrothed at Dunbar, the girl seemed to be wasting away. Selfishly, Skena had spent the summer hiding from the fact that marriages would need to be made for the women of her clan and for herself. There were no other alternatives. The crux of the problem came in the nearest men were from Clans Comyn and Campbell, both having lands pushing up against the far border of Craigendan. Each clan had long craved to get their hands on Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. She feared they saw Craigendan as a means of getting a foothold into the Ogilvie lands.
Had not Duncan Comyn already come around repeatedly since his brother’s death last August? Rumor said Lord Ravenhawke killed him; others spoke the Dragon himself dispatched Phelan Comyn. Most had shrugged and muttered ’twas no big loss. Phelan had not been popular with the men, since he oft dallied with married females. For some fool reason, the Scotsman had rashly led an attack on the Challon party as they returned from Parliament. As a result, the second son, Duncan, was now the new chief of the Comyns of Dunkeld. After claiming his brother’s place in the clan, Duncan had turned his attention to Craigendan, avowing he wanted to pay court to Skena.
“Stuff and nonsense. Men and their foolish schemes think women are none the wiser to their lies and ways.” Skena dusted her hands on her apron and then untied it, attempting to make herself presentable. Her mother had not plucked her from a neep patch. She figured Duncan wanted Craigendan so he could turn it into a thorn at Lord Challon’s back. She relished no part of being caught in the middle of a power struggle between Duncan Comyn and Julian Challon.
Muriel stepped close as Elspeth hurried away. “Dangerous times, lass. Tread careful with this English Dragon. Remember, he be overlord here. And watch your muttering to yourself, eh?”
Skena sucked in a steadying breath. “I hold nary a need for your whispered warnings of things I already ken. I have heard how the mighty beastie’s name be uttered in dread. Hardnosed men pale when they speak of Julian Challon. Still, think on it―Tamlyn be nary a fool. Word travels back that she finds favor with her new lord husband. Norman-English he may be, but they say my cousin warms to her dragon. I pray this be so. Mayhap it will give me an edge in dealing with him.”
“Saying I told you so―you should have taken matters into your hands and found a husband. Now, you be at the mercy of an Englishman―” Muriel continued her upbraid for Skena’s lax handling of the impasse.
“Hush blethering. You spoke such to me so many times this summer,” Skena little needed everyone hanging on her elbow, telling her that they were worried, or what she should have done. “’Tis too late. What ifs and should haves help no one. Cease the fashing. Let me find some measure of peace within myself before I needs must face this arrogant and powerful male who holds the fate of all here in the palm of his hands.”
Muriel looked contrite. “Beg pardon, Skena. In my panic I forget the burdens you carry.” She paused, her eyes lifting upward to the tower. “What about the braw man in your bed? I have seen you tending him. You favor him. Aye, he needs care for the short term, but he be a fine man. You will find naught better if you search the breadth of this land. A proper lord he would make for Craigendan.”
If only. Skena choked back the pain fisting around her heart and pointed out, “We ken little about the man. He might be an ogre by nature.”
Muriel laughed mockingly. “Clutching straws, Skena? My eyes may no’ be as sharp as they were a score year ago, but that man be quality. Few like him about. You want him―do no’ deny this. Your eyes speak the story, lass. Cease waiting for life to happen. Take what you want before men seek to fashion the path of your destiny.”
“Shut your gub and let me gather my wits.” She tried to sound stern, the lady of the keep. Muriel just chuckled. Skena could not stop the blush spreading up her neck and to her cheeks as she noticed all eyes upon her. “Well, what do you stand around gaping for? Everyone—go about your chores. Fetch some bread and cheese. Warm some cider. They will be cold, weary from the long ride in the snow. We have guests a-coming. Snap to.”
Skena fisted her hands, thinking how the fare served to these Englishmen would be food from the mouths of Craigendan’s people. Well, there was naught for it. She had to treat this Englishman with all the respect due to their overlord. Mayhap things would work out. With Earl Challon being kinsman, mayhap she could indeed apply for support.
“If wishes were cows none wouldst starve this winter,” she muttered, and glanced down at her faded kirtle, disheartened she had no time to change. Well, they were a poor holding. No use to put on airs and pretend otherwise.
Galen hurried in, his face drawn. “Skena, I came as soon as I heard. ’Tis truth? The Black Dragon comes?”
“We learn shortly.” Skena curled her fingers into her palms to hide the trembling.