Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders)

by K. E. Saxon

  On the morrow, he’d obtain ink, parchment, and quill, as she’d assured him she knew how to read and write. And then, he’d told her, he wanted her entire life’s story writ out. For, ‘twas clear to him now, that there was much in her past which he needed to know if he was e’er to understand what was causing her sometimes strange behavior and fright.

  * * *

  “Did she see you?” the first man asked.

  “Aye,” the other answered, then took a long pull on his tankard of ale.

  “Think you that she remembers then?”

  The other man shrugged and shook his head. “ ‘Tis hard to know, but by her reaction, I’d say she recalls at least a bit of it.”

  “If it comes to it, we shall kill her. If Morgunn hasn't come back from the dead and aided his wife in her escape from me, as Donnach and I suspicioned, this daughter is still a threat, as is Gwynlyan. I kept Gwynlyan too long as it is, I confess. I should have killed her years ago once her usefulness in my bed was at an end.”

  The other man nodded. “I’ve kept a close vigil of the comings and goings, and have seen no one that matches the description you gave of the mother. Where e’er she is, she is not on this holding.”

  “Where else would she go?” The first man rubbed the pad of his thumb o’er the round ruby set in the silver ring on his middle finger. “Nay, do not relax your guard, she will come. I am sure of it.”

  * * *

  “You sang in your sleep again this night past. You’ve not done so since we wed, mayhap since that first night at the hunter’s cot.”

  Morgana’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. She looked at her husband, wide-eyed, and slowly placed the crust of bread back on the trencher, swallowing convulsively. She’d sung? Had she sung the Pater Noster? Again? She opened her mouth and tried to speak the question; tried to at least mouth it, but the words wouldn’t form.

  Robert reached over and placed his hand o’er hers. “You truly cannot make a sound now?”

  She shook her head.

  “ ‘Twas again the Pater Noster you sang. And ‘twas lovely, Morgana. I’ve ne’er before heard a voice as melodious as yours.”

  Morgana blushed. He’d not said anything as sweet before. His usual manner of speaking to her was blunt or involved the more vulgar love words.

  “Why the Pater Noster?”

  Morgana’s brows slammed together in confusion. She shrugged and shook her head.

  “Scribe your thoughts to me and I’ll read them after dinner this afternoon.” Robert cringed inside. What was happening to him? He actually wanted to know a lady’s thoughts? Nay, had actually demanded as much? He leapt to his feet. “I’ve a new tower wall being constructed that I need to o’ersee.” He turned and stormed toward the entrance of the great hall. Christ’s Bones! What mad sickness had taken hold of him? And he’d still not worked out in his mind why he’d been impelled two nights past to impart so much of his own thoughts to her.

  He truly did not recognize himself any longer. Mayhap, he’d caught a fever. He lifted his hand to his forehead. Aye, a fever. A fever which had caused him to lose his mind.

  But an afternoon with his soldiers, doing man’s work, might be the remedy. He hoped.

  Morgana could only stare at her husband’s receding back. What e’er had come o’er the man? He’d acted as if stinging bees had gotten inside his braies, he’d leapt up and darted away so quickly.

  With a shake of her head, she resumed breaking her fast. Afterward, she’d do as Robert wanted and scribe as much as she knew of her life’s story. Her stomach did a little flip. Including her feelings regarding the Pater Noster.

  * * *

  Morgana watched with envy her maid, Modron, organize the weavers for their day’s labors. ‘Twas the task she herself was bound to do as castelaine of the keep, and tho’ she held great gratitude to Robert for securing such a warm, generous, and competent companion for her to aid her in these tasks, it also brought to bear, each time she beheld it, and with e’er more clarity, the absurd and ill-conceived desire she’d borne all those sennights at court that she could e’er be a true help-meet, a true wife, to any man of rank and land. Why had the King believed it possible? Why had I? ‘Twould have been better had she stayed at the nunnery, where her duties were simple, and guided by others, and there was little need for the spoken word.

  “What ails you, m’lady?” Modron said, jolting Morgana from her brood. “You’ve lost all countenance! Here,”—she hurried her over to a bench and sat down beside her—“settle here for a moment. Eithne, bring our lady a cup of water from the cask! Quickly!”

  Morgana bolstered her courage, forcing the uncertainty back from where it had sprung, took a long, soothing drink of the cool water, then, after handing the ladle back to Eithne, turned to Modron with a gentle smile and placed her hand in hers. “I am well now,” she mouthed.

  Modron patted their joined hands with her other, then started to rise, but Morgana waylaid her, tugging her back to settle beside her once more. As the weavers were well-set upon their duties, and well-away from the corner nook in which the two of them rested, Morgana, feeling again the close bond they’d formed since her wedding, took that moment to ask the question that had been burning within her these past moons, that she had yet to draw the courage to query, lest she be perceived as too prying. Sliding her hand from Modron’s, she mouthed as she folded her arms and rocked them as if rocking a babe, “What became of your bairns?”

  A jubilant bubble of relief and joy rose in her chest when Modron did not turn from her, but instead studied Morgana’s face with eyes full of wonder and affection, then said, “Tho’ I bore several, I only went to childbed with one. My first—a daughter. Lovely, she was. She sang like an angel on high, all noon and night, and the sound of her laughter was as high and bright as a harmony of faery bells.” Modron sighed, blinked several times, as if sweeping away tears, and looked away, saying, “But. After my husband’s death, she went to live with others who were better able to care, protect, feed, and clothe her.” After taking in a deep breath, which straightened her spine, and brought her shoulders back, she said with finality, “And, alas, I’ve learned she has no memory of me, and it has been decided that, for now at least, I must keep it such. Let us go to the larder now to take our stock of the stores there, shall we?” And with that, she rose with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, and waited with patience for Morgana to rise as well and begin the trek to the larder, so that she might follow behind.

  * * *

  ‘Twas a few hours later, after quite a bit of laborious, physical work, that Robert finally felt calm again. He stood back and examined all that had been accomplished since his return to his holding.

  Scanning the outer wall and gatehouse, he noted that the repairs were going well—better, even, than he’d first expected.

  He had only been back here a handful of times these past years as he’d done all he could to raise the coin needed to keep the land in their family. And in those years, and clearly for many years prior, very little monies had been allotted to the maintenance of the fortress and keep. A thing that, now that he’d been given a reprieve from paying the remainder of the debt so quickly, he intended to change.

  His earlier unease regarding his reactions to his bride had, thankfully, and at last, receded back from whence it had sprung. And now that it had, he was determined that ‘twould remain there. For, he was now convinced, those reactions were merely some strange and temporary madness brought on by his elation and profound relief regarding his not losing his clan’s holding. Aye, he was back to his old self, he was sure.

  He could not, however, ignore the fright she’d taken the night before—nor her ethereal song as she slumbered. For, as her husband, ‘twas his duty, his avowed duty, to keep and protect her. And for her own safety, he must not only learn why she’d been so afraid, but if, as well, it had aught to do with her loss of speech.

  The bells began to toll and all work came to an end for t
he time being as everyone turned toward their own hearths to partake of their dinners. Robert did the same.

  * * *

  An hour later, after their meal, Robert placed the sheet of parchment down on the table and lifted his eye to his bride. “So. You remember naught of your youth prior to your life at the nunnery.” He turned his sights back on the curving lines of writing. All at once, he recalled his liege’s words to him the eve before their wedding.

  He sat forward a bit, drilling Morgana with a steady gaze. “King William said there was some horror in your youth. What could he have meant?”

  Morgana’s heart began to thud and her palms grew moist. She shrugged and shook her head.

  “No one has told you?” Robert’s brows drew together even more when Morgana shook her head again. As he scrubbed his fingers across his chin, he stared at the hearthfire. “ ‘Tis strange, I trow.”

  Morgana could do naught but shrug again and nod.

  After another moment, Robert whipped his head around and said, “Think you that Vika knows the tale?”

  Morgana had avoided learning of her past since first arriving at the King's court. But somehow, now that she had Robert's strength behind her, she felt better able to delve into that time. She shrugged, motioning that she could send her a missive to query her.

  “Aye, do that.” He picked up the second sheet and quickly read it. His eyes grew round, then narrowed when he read the part where she’d seen Ankou at the Bealltainn fires the night before and that it caused her to see a recurring image of him carrying a dead woman in his arms. This was something she had not been able to explain well the night before with her usual means of communication. He’d only understood that she’d been frighted by the rough and noisy fire rituals, that it had reminded her of something she didn’t like.

  He looked up and studied her troubled visage for a moment. “Ankou?” He shook his head in confusion.

  Morgana lifted the quill and dipped it in the vial of ink. Taking the sheet of parchment from his hand, she then wrote out who the creature was. With a bit of a shaking hand, she gave it back to him.

  Robert read the newly-writ words. “A death god?” He shook his head again. “I’ve ne’er heard of this creature.”

  ‘Twas Morgana’s turn to be confused.

  She took the parchment again and wrote a bit more detail.

  After Robert had scanned her newest addition, he said, “I’ll ask Dugan and some of the others if they saw anyone about the fires last eve that fits this description.” If a stranger had been amongst them, he needed to know. Not only for Morgana, but for the safety of his clan and his fortress.

  He shuffled the pages together and rolled them up as he stood. “Go about your chores. I’ll see you at supper.” He strode out, his mind already on his coming conversation with Dugan, his lieutenant.

  Morgana sighed as she watched her husband’s determined departure. She supposed ‘twas wishing for the moon to think he’d e’er give her a kiss—even a pat on her hand—before he left her side. With a small shake of her head, she rose to her feet as well and walked toward the door leading to the spinning and weavers’ chambers. Time to find Modron and learn what progress she and the others had made this day.

  * * *

  Morgana awoke that night to the feel of the blunt pad of her husband’s long finger wedged between her closed thighs, strumming the sensitive bud of her sex. “Open, I’m going to fuck you now,” he murmured against her ear. She felt the weight of his engorged manhood rubbing against the crease between her buttocks. She curved her back, pressing her swollen labia against it and lifted one leg, draping it back and o’er his own.

  His breath was harsh, bathing and buffeting her ear canal as he positioned himself at her entrance and pushed high and deep. There was some resistance, but by the third thrust he was all the way in. “God, I love fucking you. Your cunt is so tight. Hot. Slick.”

  The words sent her into a spiral of ecstasy. He didn’t always speak to her while they made love and it thrilled her to hear his voice, no matter how ribald the speech, while he was mating with her. For, somehow, she understood, that when he spoke, if he spoke, it meant that he was in the throes of such pleasure, he could no longer keep silent.

  She moved against him, pressing herself down on him, forcing him within her so high it hurt. She wanted to please him, to give him all of herself. And she’d learned these past moons what did please him: He liked burying himself inside her as far as he could go; he liked even more when she helped him do so. What e’er he wanted from her, she would give him. She wanted to bring him delight, bring him contentment, bring him joy. She wanted...she wanted to make him love her.

  As she loved him.

  CHAPTER 7

  ROBERT STRODE TOWARD his bedchamber the next day in search of Morgana. He’d spoken to most of the revelers of two nights past and had not found one who’d seen the stranger described by his wife in her writing.

  He wondered if the man, this Ankou creature, had been some phantasm of the mind brought about by the mixture of liquor, smoky air, and revelry.

  He flung the door wide and took two long strides inside before he realized his wife was on their bed with her back to him.

  Not at all where he’d expected to find her.

  “What ails you?”

  She shook her head and waved her hand in a shooing motion.

  He ignored her decree and marched over to the bedside. ‘Twas then that he heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. His skin crawled. Blood of Christ! What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  He looked first here, then there, desperately searching for something to offer her.

  Why him? He had no idea how to deal with a wet-eyed female. His sights finally lighted on the ewer of water on the washstand. He took the several steps over to it and quickly poured some out into the pewter cup that rested next to it. When he was once more standing at her back, he thrust the vessel under her nose. “Drink.”

  She shook her head and sniffled. When her shoulders began to quake with great sobs, he felt a panic rise up inside him the likes of which he’d ne’er known. Not even the time he’d ridden out alone on the border and been ambushed by a band of freebooters when he was a lad of only eleven summers had he experienced such a dread as this, so profound in its compass as to render him utterly frozen with it.

  Another long moment passed as his mind spun with disjointed thoughts about how he should handle this. Finally, he set the cup on the table next to the bed and, after taking more than one very deep breath, he sat down next to his distraught bride. Having absolutely no idea how to calm her, he did the first thing that came to him. He patted her head. “You’re all right. You can stop weeping now.”

  Morgana turned and looked at the big hulking man that was her husband through the tears pooled in her eyes. The expression on his face would have made her laugh if the pain of her heartbreak wasn’t so acute. He looked lost and highly uneasy. A first for her—and no doubt for him as well.

  Then he did something that startled her, broke her heart a bit more and, miraculously, began to mend it as well: He leaned down and kissed her on her mouth. The kiss was so gentle, so dulcet. There was more behind that kiss than comfort and she exulted in it.

  She lifted her hand to the short stubbled beard that covered his jaw and stroked her fingers through its somewhat coarse, dark mass.

  When he broke away at last, he did not move his face far from her own. His eyes showed less alarm now, showed that familiar spark that she’d come to know so well these past moons. “What ails you?” he asked again, softer this time, but with just as much steel behind it. She would not—could not—refuse to answer this time.

  She lifted her skirts and showed him what she wore beneath. Her face crumpled once more as a new flood of tears gushed from her eyes and down her hot cheeks. She flung the skirts back o’er her legs and flipped over on her side, hiding her face in her hands as she silently bawled her heartache away.

  Robert cl
eared his throat and darted a look at the exit. Where the hell is Modron? She was much better equipped to handle these female doings than he. “Do you need an herbal for the pain?”

  Morgana stopped crying. She did laugh then, snorted actually, so he had to know she was laughing at him, which made her feel contrite. She turned her head and, looking at him, shook a negative.

  Then, seeing how distressed, how awkward, he truly was, she crossed her arms and mimed cradling a babe in them. Then opened them and shrugged, shaking her head.

  His eyes widened with understanding—and not just a bit of relief.

  Robert’s hand trembled as he lifted it to his wife’s hip and softly stroked the rounded curve of it. His mind churned. “So—you are sad because you aren’t childing yet?”

  She nodded.

  Again, the image flashed in his mind of her in that very state, with his babe in her arms. But this time, there was also an ache attached that squeezed his heart like a vise.

  Mayhap next time.

  He cleared his throat again. “My sister, Isobail—she died near the time of Samhainn two years past—it took near a half a year after she was wed before she...umm...did.”

  That made Morgana’s heart sing. Not just the tidings that it could take a bit longer than she’d hoped to conceive a babe—for Modron had told her the same thing this morn—but that Robert had again revealed something about his family which had naught to do with his father’s ill-desired legacy. She smiled and asked him, as best she was able, to tell her more about his sister.

  To her great surprise and e’erlasting delight, he did just that. He scooted her over and settled on the bed beside her, wrapping her in his arms. He spent the next hour telling her about the elder sister he’d loved so dearly, but whose life had ended much too soon. He also told her about David, Isobail’s son. That he was being cared for by, and fostered as page to, his best childhood friend, Callum MacGregor and his wife, Branwenn. That the lad’s father had died not long before Isobail and that Robert had been in no position to care for his nephew at that time. It had been a necessary arrangement, Robert said, for which he would forever be grateful to his friend.