One Snowy Knight (31 page)

Her mother’s instinct pushed her to go onward and search for the children. The kenning and logic warned her to turn back. She hesitated, torn by the warring pressure within her heart.

“Noel.” The name fell from her lips. She knew she must go back and get him. He would be returning by now. Allow him to deal with this. He had Guillaume and the men of Challon to back him.

With her mind resolute, she swung back in the direction of Craigendan, urgency biting at her mind. As she rounded the bend, the snow was coming down so hard she could barely see ten paces ahead of her. She pulled up short, startled, when she nearly ran into Ella. Backing up a step, she clutched the mantle tightly about her.

“Ella, what are you doing out here? Are you following me?” Seeing the woman inflamed her anger. She forever seemed to be asking Ella why she was in places where she had no reason to be. “You are supposed to be sick.”

The ugly, squat woman did not appear ill, but stood there grinning like a jackanapes. The crone was a mystery, but Skena had little time to fool with her.

“Sick? Been sick most of me life. Sick of them that think they are better than others,” Ella answered oddly.

Skena had no patience with the queer woman. “Well, be that as it may, I have no time to listen right now. I need to get back to Craigendan—” She started to move past Ella, who stood in the middle of the path blocking the way, but Ella slammed into her, just as she had when they had passed in the hallway.

“Och, pardon me clumsiness, Lady Skena.”

Clumsiness, her arse! Ella had deliberately rammed against her as she attempted to pass. Skena tried not to show affront, but felt the frown creasing her brow. “Nevermind,” she said dismissively. She misliked the gleam in Ella’s dark grey eyes, but simply wanted to get past. She would deal with her later, after the children had been found. “It happens. Footing is slippery in this snow. We both need to get back to Craigendan.”

As Skena, once again, started to go by the stout woman, Ella met her, the club-fisted hands shoving at her so hard, it knocked her back several steps. She had to struggle not to fall onto the snow. A gentle mistress to her clansmen, Skena had never taken a lash to anyone, but she feared Ella was pushing her to that point.

“How dare you, Ella! What has gotten into your brain? Maggots?”

“You ain’t so high and mighty now, eh?” Ella came onward, clearly intent on pushing Skena again.

Enough of this! Skena was not having some sort of shoving contest with the ugly woman. While Skena had strengthened her muscles over this past summer and autumn, she recognized Ella had a good three stone on her, and not all was fat. The woman had a brutish thickness to her body generally seen only upon a man. Instead of waiting for the challenge, Skena spun on her heels and ran, intending on taking the path that circled around to Craigendan.

Moving fast, she did not slow as she rounded the bend again. This time she crashed into another body. She jerked away from her half sister and then looked over her shoulder to see Ella coming up behind her.

“Dorcas. What means this?” Skena demanded.

Dorcas smiled. “Tide and time, dear one. Winds of change blow. Methinks beginning with this fine mantle. I have never seen anything so beautiful. Take it off, sister.”

“Have you both gone mad? Lord de Servian will have you whipped.” Skena jumped as Dorcas grabbed at her mantle. Not about to give Dorcas spit if she was on fire, Skena punched out straight and caught her half sister unawares; her fist slammed upward to her sister’s chin, the force enough to knock her on her arse.

Skena rushed by the fallen Dorcas, but suddenly another person stepped into the pathway. A man. She staggered back in horror.

Angus.

“Well met, Skena, lass. I have been waiting for you, said the hunter to the hare.” He laughed, the harsh sound ringing through the snowy landscape.

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, Simon, 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 Guillaume’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 it was better to be inside out of the weather. I should make you awares, Noel, your continual good cheer is not infectious, and attempts to jolly me are bloody irritating. 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 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 it 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 Kerian 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 would 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 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 ciphers, 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, while 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 to 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 between 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 to start a marriage.” Holding his hand out palm up, he allowed the snow to gather on his leathern gauntlet. “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. “Hiagh!”

“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 the realization 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 by 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 was the one who 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 terrified, 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 will see them soon.” He gave her an affable smile. “So few questions, Skena? Surely, you wonder 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 is little need for me to ask who you are, Daragh Fadden,” she answered with a regal tilt of her head. “I am 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 spoke that the women of Ogilvie blood had eyes that reminded them of a cat’s. She hoped to play upon the superstitious fears that grew from this talk.

Ella glanced to Dorcas, unease dawning upon her face. “’Tis true, ’tis whispered some Ogilvie females have the power to change into a mountain cat nine times. Witches! Heard the
Seanchaidh
story about it afore.”

Daragh 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.

Daragh 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 is not fit for beasts.”

Her lips petulant, she made to snatch the end of Skena’s mantle, only to have Daragh snag her wrist, his large hand clapping about it hard. With 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,” Daragh snarled. Yanking Dorcas to him, he hauled her up on tiptoes, 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. “You leave her be. Deal with that ’un there—” She motioned toward Skena with a sweep of her arm.

He gave Dorcas a hard shove back into Ella’s chest, and saw both women struggle not to fall. Glaring at Ella as if she were an idiot, he snapped, “Did you not 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 Daragh 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 have drawn 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 mounting, she suddenly worried that was precisely what Daragh 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 need to get out of the snow.”

Skena resisted his guiding pressure. “Where are you taking me?”

“To see your children. 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 wanted to see Annis and Andrew, assure herself they were safe. Then, she needed space to know what was best to do, to figure out what Daragh hoped to achieve by all this nonsense. The farther they walked, the heavier the snow came down, and despite knowing this area of her land, she was growing confused about which direction he was herding her. The only thing for sure in the blinding blizzard was that 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 Muriel’s birth. Elspeth realized it would take a lot of work to restore it to the point that it would be a good home for her and her husband. Still, the master masons of the Picts built structures to last, and built them to be unassailable. For centuries her ancestors had run to this circular stone fortification in times of war.

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 seven 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, and that was through a cramped tunnel-style entrance. Skena felt an insistent shove at her back, so she lifted her skirts and ducked down to go inside. Since her head would just clunk against 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 confined. 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 arms to defend themselves.

Dim light provided by a single torch filled the central chamber, 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 one side of her. Protectively, her cloak was curled around them to add its warmth to their small bodies, so 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 smudge of black on her cheek. As she reached out to rub it away with her thumb, she hesitated, seeing 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 am fine. Do not fash, lass.”

The children looked up with glassy eyes at Skena, obviously so warm in their nest provided by Muriel that 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 a faint nod.