He was devoted to Julian, Simon, and Damian, though likely he was a bit closer to Guillaume, mayhap because they were only months apart in age. Growing up with them held much sought after advantages. He had been envied by countless, feared by the rest. The mere whisper of the name Challon caused many a man’s blood to turn to ice. He never resented that he was not a true son of Earl Michael, and was content to serve the man’s sons, and later their king under the Challon pennon.
Still, the future was by no means his. He had never forgotten that everything had been taken from him merely because he was too young to hold the fief that had been his family’s for centuries. He barely recalled details of that dark time. Just the pain. The pain of hearing his father had been killed in the lists, while waging mock battles with the hope of increasing the near empty coffers of Darkmoor. His mother’s howls of anguish, echoing against the stone walls of the castle. Vague whispers of the servants. Their fearful glances. At age five he scarcely understood why. He soon learnt.
He recalled awaking in the middle of the night, breaking the dream of his father’s death. So vivid, he almost felt as if he had traveled back in time and visited the horrible scene. He watched his father as the lance hit his chest, splintered into jagged shards, one flying up into his helm’s visor, driving through the ocularium and into his brain through his eye. So detailed, he woke screaming. Terrified, barely able to breathe, he crawled from the high bed and went to seek out his lady mother, wanting her comfort, her soft words telling him that everything would be all right.
She had not been there. No soft words of reassurance. And nothing was all right.
The servants carried her into the castle shortly after dawnbreak, her night rail and black hair sodden, her skin alabaster white. For a long held breath he merely stared at the woman they carried. Surely, this was some poor lost soul, a stranger to Darkmoor? Only his eyes spotted the scar on the back of her hand. Five months past, Mother had been using a dull knife and put too much pressure on it to make it cut. The blade had slipped and sliced across the back of the opposite hand. Clutching at straws, his mind even thought for a brief instant how odd this unfortunate woman had a mark exactly like his mother. He heard a deep keening and wondered who was making that horrible noise.
Then he understood. It was coming from him.
Sennights later, the Earl Michael arrived, telling him to pack his belongings, that he was to come to Castle Challon to live. He knew the handsome, commanding man. His father and Lord Challon had been close friends. It was not easy for Noel to accept; everything seemed to be taken from him. First Father, then Mother, and finally his heritage, Darkmoor. The black-haired man with the brilliant green eyes had smiled and said not to be scared, that at Castle Challon he would have brothers, a home…someplace safe.
Yes, he had been protected, permitted to grow alongside the men of Challon. Still, he had never had a future of his own. He had always fought for others, never for himself.
In all those years since, he remembered many women, women who wanted his body, wanted the power the Challon pennon afforded him. They paraded through his life, his bed, in their fine silks, velvets, and brocades, heavily bedecked with gold, pearls, or other precious jewels. Never had one been willing to give her own life to defend his.
Skena had. He’d heard her send the children off. She could have left him, ridden back to the fortress with the children to fetch help. Instead, she stayed behind to shield him from the threat of wolves. That choice could have cost her life, and she had known that. If she had it all to do over again, he’d be willing to bet Craigendan that Skena MacIain would make the same choice.
Something about that valiant, selfless act touched him in a way words failed to explain.
Still, the future was by no means his. He had never forgotten that everything had been taken from him merely because he was too young to hold the fief that had been his family’s for centuries. He barely recalled details of that dark time. Just the pain. The pain of hearing his father had been killed in the lists, while waging mock battles with the hope of increasing the near empty coffers of Darkmoor. His mother’s howls of anguish, echoing against the stone walls of the castle. Vague whispers of the servants. Their fearful glances. At age five he scarcely understood why. He soon learnt.
He recalled awaking in the middle of the night, breaking the dream of his father’s death. So vivid, he almost felt as if he had traveled back in time and visited the horrible scene. He watched his father as the lance hit his chest, splintered into jagged shards, one flying up into his helm’s visor, driving through the ocularium and into his brain through his eye. So detailed, he woke screaming. Terrified, barely able to breathe, he crawled from the high bed and went to seek out his lady mother, wanting her comfort, her soft words telling him that everything would be all right.
She had not been there. No soft words of reassurance. And nothing was all right.
The servants carried her into the castle shortly after dawnbreak, her night rail and black hair sodden, her skin alabaster white. For a long held breath he merely stared at the woman they carried. Surely, this was some poor lost soul, a stranger to Darkmoor? Only his eyes spotted the scar on the back of her hand. Five months past, Mother had been using a dull knife and put too much pressure on it to make it cut. The blade had slipped and sliced across the back of the opposite hand. Clutching at straws, his mind even thought for a brief instant how odd this unfortunate woman had a mark exactly like his mother. He heard a deep keening and wondered who was making that horrible noise.
Then he understood. It was coming from him.
Sennights later, the Earl Michael arrived, telling him to pack his belongings, that he was to come to Castle Challon to live. He knew the handsome, commanding man. His father and Lord Challon had been close friends. It was not easy for Noel to accept; everything seemed to be taken from him. First Father, then Mother, and finally his heritage, Darkmoor. The black-haired man with the brilliant green eyes had smiled and said not to be scared, that at Castle Challon he would have brothers, a home…someplace safe.
Yes, he had been protected, permitted to grow alongside the men of Challon. Still, he had never had a future of his own. He had always fought for others, never for himself.
In all those years since, he remembered many women, women who wanted his body, wanted the power the Challon pennon afforded him. They paraded through his life, his bed, in their fine silks, velvets, and brocades, heavily bedecked with gold, pearls, or other precious jewels. Never had one been willing to give her own life to defend his.
Skena had. He’d heard her send the children off. She could have left him, ridden back to the fortress with the children to fetch help. Instead, she stayed behind to shield him from the threat of wolves. That choice could have cost her life, and she had known that. If she had it all to do over again, he’d be willing to bet Craigendan that Skena MacIain would make the same choice.
Something about that valiant, selfless act touched him in a way words failed to explain.
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