by K. E. Saxon
“I’ll go inside and get her,” Robert said. He turned and went into the cabin once more, stormed over to Morgana, and yanked her up by her upper arm. Her head whipped around and her eyes went wide with dread. “So. You thought to trick me into marriage, did you? Well, you’ll not be pleased for long, I trow, when you discover the depth to which my fortunes have sunk. You’ll be lucky to have a roof o’er your head in three moons’ time.”
Morgana’s brows drew together and she shook her head in confusion, in denial of his accusation.
Robert’s laugh was derisive. “To think, ‘twas I who was plotting to trick your cousin into a wedding, as I and my clan desperately need the coin she can provide. What a foul twist it has all taken.”
Morgana tried to break free of his hold, but he tightened his grip, hauling her up against his chest. “Your uncle awaits us outside, my sweet, with a priest in the ready to bless our vows. ‘Tis fitting, I think, that you’ll be wed in these rags, as they’re likely to be the best you’ll see for many years to come.” He swung around and dragged her by the arm out the door, down the steps, to stand in front of the priest.
The gaunt, black-haired man of the cloth stood silent, his craggy mien rigid with disapproval, his back stiff with it, and his hands tucked around the holy book, which he held with great piety against the front of his thighs.
* * *
Morgana was stunned, horrified, in fact, that her uncle had caught her thus—with her lover. And the look on the priest’s face made her cringe inside. Aye, he, like the others like him she’d met at court, surely already believed her a consort of the devil, now he no doubt felt he had the final proof of it.
The priest looked directly at her then, his black eyes piercing her, sending a trickle of alarm, a strange feeling of awful recognition, through her before it vanished as quickly as it came. ‘Twas no doubt dread of his power and position, she decided. And then, he began a slow incantation:
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis
Sanctificetur nomen tuum—”
Morgana’s ears began to ring. Her heartbeat quickened and she swayed, nearly falling forward, but Robert caught her up against him. The priest did not falter; he continued on to the last of the prayer.
Afterward, he settled his gaze on Robert, saying, “Will you, Robert MacVie, willingly wed this lass?”
“Aye, I will,” Robert said between clenched teeth.
“And Morgana Cambel, do you willingly wed this man?”
Morgana pushed away from her lover and shook her head.
“Aye, she does,” the earl interjected.
She turned toward her uncle and motioned with her hands, with the shaking of her head, that she absolutely would not agree to such.
The earl stepped forward and slapped her across the face, so hard that she stumbled. “You will!”
Robert caught her before she fell. Now, he was confused. Hadn’t Morgana been part of the plot? And then: Had it been a plot, or had it been a very unlucky happenstance that the uncle arrived back much, much sooner than was expected?
The earl grabbed her away from Robert and began to shake her. “You will wed this man now, else I’ll lock you away until you agree to do so. Which will it be?”
“Release her,” Robert said, his voice dark with anger.
The earl looked at the bloodlust shining in the mighty warrior’s eye and thought better of arguing with him. He let go of his niece and stepped back. “We’ll return to the abbey, but be prepared to wed my niece in three days’ time. ‘Tis clear, she needs a bit more persuading as to just what is her duty.”
One of the earl’s soldiers brought forth a white palfrey with a gray mane. From the look of joy that settled on Morgana’s countenance, ‘twas clear the horse was a favored mount. Robert watched her avid reaction to the beast. Had she not seen the horse in a while? The way she pressed her cheek to its neck, as if greeting a long-lost friend, made him wonder.
* * *
‘Twas clear to Robert that the snow storm of two morns before had been mostly concentrated near the cot, for, as he and the band of soldiers continued to travel down the path, the snow became much less dense, the traveling much easier. It answered the lingering question of how the earl—anyone, for that matter—had traversed the hillside to get to them.
Morgana rode up nearer the front with her uncle and the priest. The fact that she still refused to wed him softened his feelings for her even further than they already had been by their torrid night of passion.
‘Twas a boon for which he’d not deny gratitude that the law—both that of the church and that of the state—decried that both parties must openly attest to their willingness for a particular marriage match, else they could not be wed. Which would allow him the chance to find another heiress.
* * *
Vika followed the servant into Morgana’s chamber. She waited for the youth to settle the tray of food onto the table and walk back out before she spoke. “So, was it all that you’d dreamed, my pet?”
Morgana felt her face flame, but she nodded.
“Good. He can be a bit...I know not...less than generous, shall we say? Sometimes?”
Morgana gave her a confused look.
Vika grinned. “But I see that was clearly not the case for you. ‘Tis glad I am of that.” She wandered over to the table and tore a piece of venison away from the shank and popped it in her mouth. After a moment, she said, “ ‘Tis a shame the King sent a messenger to turn my father back from his journey to our holding, else your adventure would have gone undiscovered.”
She pivoted to face Morgana. “But my father is now quite set upon you wedding your seducer. And, after all, ‘twas the King’s greatest wish that you be brought from the nunnery and given the chance at a husband.”
She walked over to where Morgana sat by the hearth and knelt down, taking both Morgana’s hands in her own. “You must agree to wed him, my pet, else my father is quite set on punishment until you do.” She paused briefly before continuing, “And he can be quite brutal, as I learned on more than one occasion when I was a young lass, and before I agreed to wed the old man he chose for me. Thanks be to heaven that I’m out from under both their controls these past three years since the old man’s death.” Vika squeezed Morgana’s hands. “ ‘Tis no use fighting my father—he always gets what he wants in the end.” She lifted her hand to Morgana’s cheek. “Go to him now, before he can begin his punishment, and tell him you’ve reconsidered, that you will wed Robert MacVie.”
Morgana shook her head, giving her cousin a pleading look for understanding.
“Why? Why will you not wed the man? I know you’ve been pining for him for quite a time now—all of the court knew, I think, except Robert.”
Morgana felt the hot blush of mortification rise up her neck and face. She ignored her cousin’s question and jerking her hands from her cousin’s grasp, motioned for her to explain.
Vika chuckled. “Morgana! Your eye rarely moved from him when e’er he was in the same chamber. You went only to the jousts that he was competing in. ‘Twas plain. As plain as...as...well, as the stone cross upon Caislean Credi, that you desired him.”
Morgana covered her burning face with her hands and closed her eyes tight. What a fool she’d made of herself. All the court must have laughed heartily at the nearly beggared, white-haired mute, with little chance of drawing such a one’s eye, following him around like some eager hound.
Vika patted Morgana’s knee. “Do not fret so, for, ‘tis plain now that Robert likes you as well, is it not? Or—he did take you again after he discovered the switch, did he not?”
Morgana’s cheeks burned even hotter, but she slid her hands away from her face and, giving her cousin a joyful, wide-eyed look, nodded her head.
Vika grinned. So. The lass had been well-fledged, it seemed. Good. ‘Twas good to learn of such things from a man you desired. An image flashed in her mind then of a Norse warrior—bright-haired, proud, and strong—but she scuttled it back int
o the dark recesses of her memory, turning her thoughts back to her cousin. “And you found the gift I left for you—sewn in the hem of the cloak—and used it?”
Morgana’s nod was sheepish.
“Well, then. You see? All is well. You must wed your lover and appease my father’s ire.”
Morgana’s mien turned sad again and her shoulders slumped. She shook her head.
Vika sighed loudly. “Why?”
Morgana began a mad explanation, her hands and lips moving rapidly.
Vika sat back a bit and nodded her head. “Aye,” she said with a sigh, “I know of his troubles.” She got to her feet and began to pace, chewing thoughtfully on her thumbnail. “I do not know the sum that he’s seeking, but surely my father will settle a sizeable dowry on you and that will help his cause—if not relieve it completely.”
Morgana knew differently. She’d already been told, in angry detail, of what she could expect from her uncle in the way of dowry now that she had humiliated the family with her wanton behavior: Naught.
Vika stayed another hour continuing to try to convince Morgana to change her mind, but Morgana refused to budge in her conviction that she must not stand in Robert’s way of finding and wedding the heiress he clearly so desperately needed.
She settled at the table then and ate as much of the meal as she could stomach. ‘Twould no doubt be the last for quite a time.
Afterward, she rinsed her mouth, bathed her face and slid, naked, under the blankets and linens atop her bed. It took her quite a while, but sometime in the wee hours of the morn, she at last drifted into a troubled sleep.
* * *
Morgana was wrenched from her bed not long after by her uncle, the priest standing not four paces away, and told to dress quickly.
Scarlet flags of humiliation colored her cheeks as she hastily threw on the chemise and gown her uncle tossed in her face.
“ ‘Tis the dungeon for you until you agree to wed that cocky knight who ruined you. And after you’ve given the priest your confession, he’ll mete out your penance.”
Dread filled Morgana’s breast. The dungeon? Were there not criminals there, chained and diseased, awaiting their final plea to the King, or their final end? Her resolve wavered, but then her heart overrode it. Nay, she’d not be the cause of Robert’s downfall. And surely her uncle would relent after a time, when he saw that she would not give in to him.
With her head dipped in deference and her hands clasped in front of her, she followed behind her uncle, the priest directly at her heels.
She lifted her eyes, but not her head, to her uncle as they walked down steps and through the halls and chambers of the abbey toward the tower dungeon. His gate was purposeful, his back rigid, his arms swinging at his sides. He was not a tall man, only an inch or two taller than herself. But he was wide. Not completely gone to fat, but not as lean and muscular as she’d been told he had been in his youth. His torso was long, but his legs were short and stubby.
They were going deeper and deeper down a winding stone staircase, getting e’er closer to that dark pit she’d heard tales of from some of the soldiers. Her heart, already pounding hard in her chest, began to race e’er faster, tripping and skipping the further below they went.
Her uncle paused and Morgana barely missed running into him. He took a lit torch from its sconce before continuing on his trek, ne’er saying another word to her.
She could hear the harsh breathing of the priest at her back. ‘Twas clear the man was growing winded from their long march to her doom.
At last, her uncle came to a standstill directly outside a door with a bar across it and a lock the size of the man’s head in its iron latch.
* * *
“Where has your father taken Morgana?” Guy de Burgh asked, sitting down next to Vika at table as she broke her fast in the great hall a bit later.
Vika swallowed back the waspish, jealous reply before it tripped off her tongue, instead giving him a sad look and shaking her head. With a slight shrug, she said, “I know not.”
“ ‘Tis rumored that he’s put her in the dungeon, with the felons. If that be the case, we must get her from there forthwith.”
Vika looked at her hand and rubbed the nail of her middle finger with the pad of her thumb. “I think, if ‘tis true that she’s in the dungeon, that my father would keep her locked in a chamber by herself, not in with the others there.” She lifted her gaze to Guy’s. “Besides, ‘twould only cause my father to be more angered—at me, and my cousin—were we to attempt such a feat.”
“Help me find her, at least. I must see how she fares. We can either bribe the guard, or you can distract him with your beauty and wiles. Either way, I care not.”
“Why care you so much about my cousin? Surely you’ve heard, as have I these past hours, that my father has denied her a dowry because of her conduct with Robert MacVie.” She lifted her brow in speculation. “Unless...do you want her as lover, mayhap? After Robert?”
Guy’s teeth ground together. Vika was the exact opposite, it seemed, of her cousin. The lady was selfish to a fault, ne’er doing anything unless it might serve her own interests. Even with regard to her cousin, for whom, ‘twas clear to all, she deeply cared.
The truth was, he liked Morgana. In fact, these past sennights, as he’d gotten to know her, he had come to the decision to give her his troth. He had no need for a wealthy alliance; he had plenty of his own. But he did need an heir. And, since he had destroyed his chance to wed the one woman to whom he could have—had, in fact—given his heart; a lady such as Morgana, whom he liked well, seemed the perfect solution.
“I intend to give her my troth.”
Vika turned a bit more toward him, her eyes narrowing as she rested her forearm on the table. There was an edge to her voice when she said, “You do know, my father intends her to wed Robert, her seducer, to take the taint off the family name.”
She leaned forward and said softly, “If ‘tis a wife you seek, I’ve a need for a husband now that my own dear departed’s nephew has taken possession of the family’s holding. And, unlike my cousin, I can bring a great fortune with me.” She ran her finger down the front of his tunic in direct line to his groin. “We could meet after supper and practice a bit of amorous sparring, if you wish to...” Her tongue darted out the corner of her mouth in reaction to what her finger found, then she said with a purr, “...discover how we get on...?”
Guy grabbed hold of her hand and, not gently, placed it back on the table. “I think not.”
Vika felt angry heat rise to her cheeks, but she sat back and gave Guy a bored smile. With a shrug, she said, “As you wish.” ‘Twas not as if she’d been in the least serious about wedding him, in any case, but a mutual seduction? Well, that was another matter, entirely. She took a breath and added, “As far as my aiding you with my cousin, I think not.” She rose to her feet and, with a demure courtesy, turned and walked from the great hall.
Guy narrowed his eyes as he watched Vika move smoothly toward the exit. He hardened his jaw. He would need to find another way in which to see Morgana. But how? After another moment, he, too, rose and departed the great hall, another plan forming in his mind.
* * *
Robert had heard the rumors as well, of course, but there was little he could do for Morgana without destroying his clan. Aye, his conscience was sore. Aye, he worried for her welfare. Aye, his dreams had been filled with her the night before. And, aye, if things were different, he’d wed her with little remorse.
But. He was his clan’s only hope, and he would not forsake them o’er a woman. No matter how gentle, how giving, how lovely, how restorative, how overpoweringly desirable, she was.
He rammed the bottle of uisge beatha back in his satchel and mounted his steed. He was off to a nearby holding to woo another heiress he’d learned of this morn. Mayhap, if all went well, he’d return here in a few days’ time with a new bride. And then, surely, the earl would release Morgana from her prison.
*
* *
Morgana sat crouched in the corner of the dank, dark cell. Her breathing, harsh, and her skin, clammy. She’d not stopped quaking since first smelling the odor of fetid meat and spew, the damp must that pervaded the chamber. And her uncle had not left even one taper for her.
Her head flashed first one way and then the other. All about her were the sounds of scurrying vermin feet. They’d bite her, she knew, if they were allowed near her. And such a wound could send her into a mad, foaming-mouthed fit until death at last took her. She shivered.
When the sound came closer, she swished her cloak across the floor, as she had been doing all day, to try to keep the rats at bay. Thankfully, as it had the many times she’d done so before, it worked again.
Morgana ran her dry tongue o’er her parched lips. Before the door had been slammed shut, and all light had been extinguished, her gaoler had shown her where to find the bucket that held water and a ladle from which to drink. But knowing that the rats were no doubt taking full advantage of its bounty, she’d relinquished the full of it to them.
However, her thirst was now great and, if the gaoler did not return before dawn to refill the bucket, she’d be forced to take up a bit from the tainted container.
She heard a low moan and the sound of rattling chains coming from another chamber. Panic filled her breast. “Mama!” she mouthed the word without realizing she'd done so. There was something about this place, these sounds, that niggled at her memory, that brought forth some hidden fear in her.
The violence of the sudden quakes and shudders that took hold of her frame sent her reeling. She fell hard against the two cold stone walls that met behind her, making her bite down on the inside of her cheek and delivering a new wave of searing pain through her system. The hurt sent the phantom fear flying, but brought the misery of her circumstances back to her threefold. Tears formed in her eyes as she gingerly returned to her former position.