by K. E. Saxon
But, Lord, he still had the powerful build of a Highland warrior, still had the rugged handsome appeal that had drawn her to him when she was but a lass of twelve summers and he, a young squire of fifteen.
“Do you still love me, Gwynlyan?”
Modron’s pulse pounded. Did she still love him? Her heart could not answer. Too many years had passed, and her time of grieving her loss, his death, had long receded into history. All that had been left, until just moments ago, had been warm memories of her youth and resentment at the loss of her love, her life.
Morgunn snorted. “Nay, do not answer.” He turned and walked a few paces away. His arms akimbo, he stared out into the darkness of the forest. Neither of them spoke for long minutes afterward. The only sound between them was the quiet hiss and crackle of the torch’s flame or the occasional scurrying of some woodland creature.
“How long have you known we were here?” Modron asked at last.
Morgunn swiveled to look at her a moment before turning back to his perusal of the black shades in front of him. “Nigh on a moon.”
Her brows shot higher. “Have you been here that long then?”
He shook his head. “Nay, I only arrived this day past.”
“Where were you?” Her throat ached from the effort not to scream the words, for she’d meant more by them than what he’d no doubt kenned. And ‘twas growing more plain to her with each passing moment that he’d left her to rot in her prison, left their daughter to nearly do the same in that nunnery she had been shoved into...afterward.
Morgunn turned. He took two steps toward her, then halted, as if he knew she’d not allow him closer, as if he did know what she’d meant. And when he spoke, he proved it. “For almost nine years afterward, I was lame from the sword wounds. Giric and Alaxandar sheltered me until I was well enough to be moved, then they found a place for me to live and a nurse to take care of me.” He took another tentative step toward her. She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was not in my right mind, Gwynlyan. The near-drowning had affected my reason, somehow. But, finally, with the aid of that good nurse, with her healing skills and my own determination to o’ercome my weakness, finally, about four years past, I at last regained my strength, my full mobility, and my reason. I’ve been looking for you and our daughter e’er since.” He turned his head and gazed toward the pile of wood and debris that made the dam. “Tho’, ‘tis truth, for most of that time, I believed I was searching for your graves.”
“I was in the land of the Armorics, locked away in Alaric’s seaside fortress,” she said, tho’ there was little emotion in the sound.
“Aye, I know.”
“You know?” she accused with a start.
Morgunn sighed. His hands clenched, then opened, then clenched again at his side. “Did it ne’er occur to you to wonder why you were finally allowed to leave? Given berth on a barge from there to the port near the King’s court?”
‘Twas Gwynlyan’s turn to take a step forward. Her heart began to thud in her chest. “You? How?”
“How did I find you, or how did I gain your release?”
“Both.”
* * *
Morgunn would have given his hard-won right leg’s agility at that moment to fold her in his arms, to feel the comfort of her lovely frame—the other half of his own—securely in its natural place once more, but he knew she was not yet ready to allow such from him. He could see, in the rigid way she held herself, hear in her voice, how deep the hurt had gone. Aye, ‘twould be a long, difficult struggle to regain her love, regain his place in her life. But, he was bound to do it, as, for him, there was simply no other choice. He was hers, had been since the first time he’d seen her, met her, on the rolling moors of Carn Dochan and Bala, near the old Roman fort of Caer Gai in Cambria.
“I found Angharat, your lady’s maid, back with her family near Llyn Tegid,” Morgunn said at last. “She told me of a rumor she’d heard not long after my brother’s deceit. A rumor that you and our daughter were not dead—that you had been hied off to some fortress in the duchy of Brittany, and my daughter was ensconced in a nunnery there as well, but that she, being a woman of little power or means, feared making accusations that she had little way of proving, knowing that her own family would be in his sights next, were she to do so.” He scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck a few times. “I had no other choice then. I risked all and went to Bishop Richard in Dunkeld, undisguised, allowing him to recognize me, and told to him the entire tale.”
He heard her gasp. Morgunn looked up once more, and seeing his wife’s surprised, beautiful mien, he wondered again if he could e’er win back her love. “He arranged a private meeting with King William. Once I revealed the betrayal to him as well, he agreed to press Donnach to bring Morgana to court, to try to stir Donnach’s fear that his crime would be discovered so that he might again begin to plot.”
Morgunn took in a deep breath and turned his gaze upward, focusing for a moment on the twinkling stars above as he continued, “In truth, our King had not been as startled by the revelation as I’d believed he would be,” he settled his gaze on his wife once more, “and when I inquired, he yielded that he’d suspected my brother’s hand in the deed all these years past, but could ne’er gather enough evidence to charge him, so had finally left the matter in God’s good hands to punish.”
Restless, Morgunn turned and walked a few paces away. Turning back, he said, “After my meeting with King William, I went to Brittany, to Alaric’s fortress—for who else among my brother’s comrades would have done the deed for him?—and bargained for your escape with the night guard.” He took in a deep breath and slowly released it. “I ransomed you with my father’s sword.”
Gwynlyan gasped. “Morgunn! ‘Twas your most prized possession, the key to your birthright, your final proof of his will that you hold Aerariae secturae upon his death!”
Morgunn shrugged. “I had no choice; I could not leave you to rot in that place. By some act of God’s good will, or their own blundering dull-wittedness, our attackers did not take it with them when they fled. For that, I am eternally grateful. For, I wanted my family returned more than I e’er wanted that land or the wealth that came with it.” He snorted. “All that land e’er brought me was grief, from the moment my father forced it upon me.”
Gwynlyan walked over to stand in front of him, so close, he could reach out his hands and pull her into his arms.
If only she’d allow it.
He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands at his sides to keep from doing as he craved.
“But, ‘twas our only home,” she said at last. “And he bequeathed it to you—and the sword as well—to show all that you were the son of his heart, bastard-born or nay.”
“Aye, and the bequeathing of it only made my brother covet it more. I have little doubt now that Donnach’s plot against us was set in motion on the very day our father was interred in his tomb.”
“Truly? As long ago as that?” she asked, turning and, crossing her arms over her chest, she scanned her eye o’er the light dancing on the water. The next she murmured, as if to herself: “ ‘I’d ne’er conceived….”
Morgunn swallowed the bile that rose up at the memory. He’d lost all because he’d wanted so desperately to believe his brother’s missive, to believe that, at last, the man had come to terms with their father’s betrayal of Donnach’s mother, of their father’s devotion, not only to his new wife, Morgunn’s mother, the woman he’d wed within days of Donnach’s mother’s death, but also to the son they’d conceived out of wedlock. Instead, Donnach had used Morgunn’s desire to mend their torn clan by hiring men to lay in wait for him and, worst of all, his wife and child. “I’d suspected, but didn’t want to believe...,” he replied softly.
Gwynlyan stormed away several paces. “Why did you not tell me?”
He felt a new crack in his heart at the loss of her nearness, the renewed stiffness in her frame. “I was trying to protect you; I knew how
distressed you were already. Why give you more worry if I could come to some agreement with Donnach?” He sighed and shook his head. As if drawn by unseen silver chains, he stepped toward her, stood next to her once more, gazing at her fragile-boned profile. “You were so young, Gwynlyan. We were so young. Mistakes were made, I admit that, and I ache inside knowing that you have suffered so long at the hands of my brother’s cohorts.”
Her head whipped around, and a shadow of an unknown emotion passed across her countenance, lit her eyes, at his words. But just for a fleet moment, and then ‘twas gone. Gone before he could capture its meaning. Gone before he could form a question. But in its wake, an unease twisted in his gut that he would not acknowledge. Instead, he turned away. Turned away from the feeling and turned away from her. Turned away from the lovely eyes that held so much pain, so much accusation in their moon-gilded reflection.
He faced the darkness of the wood once more. “You made a mistake, when you agreed to wed me, ‘tis plain, but—”
He heard her gasp, heard the crunch of twigs beneath her feet as she moved in some way behind him. “Nay!” she said. He felt her rush toward him, then halt, just inches away from him.
He continued as if she’d said naught, “—if you will give me a chance, I’ll do all I can to make amends for the harm I’ve caused you.”
Gwynlyan stunned him in the next moment when she took that last step and flung herself into his embrace, gave herself, her trust, into his keeping once more.
CHAPTER 8
MORGANA OPENED HER eyes and blinked rapidly against the bright sunshine coming through the window. As she stretched, she turned her head to look behind her. The dip in the pillow where her husband’s head had been was all that was left as proof of his earlier habitance.
This day was the anniversary of her nineteenth year of birth, or so she’d been told by Vika in one of their many dark-of-night, hushed confidences during her stay at King William’s court. All her life—at least the life she could remember—she’d not known, and so the nuns had simply marked the beginning of the next year of her life on the day of Christ the Lord’s birth as well.
This day, however, was to be special. For, once Robert had learned of it—Modron, bless her, had pressed Morgana to tell her if she knew the date, then scurried off in secret to inform him—he’d insisted that they have a feast to mark the day. She sighed. She smiled. She settled her hand o’er the babe Robert had given her, tucked snug in her womb.
As had become her habit these past days since discovering her childing state, she rose from the bed and quickly dressed before hastening out the door to meet Robert by the latest portion of the fortress to be repaired.
He’d changed since that day two moons prior when she’d revealed her deepest desire to him, and even more so, since discovering he’d successfully bestowed it to her.
Morgana’s hand flew up to cover the big grin that spread across her countenance. This past night, he’d even used the words enjoy you when he’d tossed her gown and chemise o’er her head and onto the floor; tho’ the words had seemed to stumble out, as if they were much too large for his mouth. She stopped short, staring across the bailey, her eyes wide with wonder, for she’d only just realized that she’d not heard him say the other, lewder, term in at least a fortnight!
She shook her head and resumed her buoyant stride. He’d been so gentle with her, too. As if he’d break her, or hurt their babe, if he moved too quickly, went too deep. And he was always resting his palm o’er her belly now. Measuring each day the growth of his son—aye, he was sure ‘twas a son he’d started inside her!
One time, a few days past, she’d awakened to hear him whispering, his lips nearly touching the small mound. It had taken her a moment to realize he was talking to their babe. Promising their wee one that he’d ne’er do what his own father had done. That he’d leave this world knowing that the legacy he left to him was intact.
That had broken her heart. When she’d stroked her hand through his mussed hair, he’d jerked, but then he’d lifted up, taken her into his arms, and kissed her. The kiss had been almost desperate, as if what he needed, only she could provide. And when she’d wrapped her legs high around his waist, urging him to enter her, it had quietened his demons, allowing him to find his rest afterward.
As she turned the corner, she saw him standing with the master mason. His brows were like angry thunderclouds shadowing gray-lightning eyes. Mayhap ‘twas not the best time to interrupt him. She’d just taken a step back, was about to turn around, when he looked up, directly into her vision. The storm clouds vanished and in their place a small smile and a definite twinkle took their place. He lifted his arm and waved her over to him, but then, as if he couldn’t wait for her to reach him, he began to move in her direction as well.
He’d left the master mason in the middle of his speech. The man flapped his arms like a goose throwing off water and stalked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Morgana grinned.
The closer they came to each other, the longer Robert’s strides grew, until he was directly in front of her. Then, he did the most wonderful thing! He hugged her and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Just as she’d hoped he’d do, but had begun to doubt he e’er would.
“How is my son?” he asked, drawing back slightly. Not waiting for her answer, he splayed his hand o’er her belly. “Same size as earlier this morn.” There was actually disappointment in his voice!
She rolled her eyes at him, but she nodded and smiled to take the sting out of the gesture.
He looked behind him and studied the progress of the work being done a silent moment, before turning back to her and saying, “The master mason wants to tear down that portion of the wall”—he pointed toward the northeast side—” and extend the bailey by a hundred feet. ‘Twill mean extending the mound, building it up as well. I will need to use some of the monies intended for the additions to our living quarters. Dugan says that we’ve needed that extra training area for a few years now.” He lifted his hand and stroked it up and down her arm. “But...if you say me nay, I shall tell him we will keep the bailey as it is.”
Morgana was stunned. So stunned, in fact, all she could do for several heartbeats was stare, her mouth agape, into her husband’s steel gray eyes.
That familiar shadow-smile touched his lips and he brought his hand up to her chin, gently pressing it up so that her mouth shut as he stroked his thumb at its corner. “What say you?” he prompted.
Morgana took in a deep breath to still her pounding heart before shaking her head. Then, motioning and mouthing the words, she told him that the fortifications must take priority o’er the dwelling.
Robert gave her a brief nod, then turned and strode over to the master mason. They spoke for a few minutes before her husband returned to her side. “There is a place I liked as a lad—a place in the wood where a burn flows. We dammed the water and made a pool to swim in. Would you like to go there with me now? Have a privy”—he leaned forward, rumbling the next two words low in her ear—“more carnal feast to honor your day of birth?” he finished as he straightened again. “Mayhap, take a bit of food to enjoy afterward, as well?”
Morgana felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but nodded in sheer delight, taking hold of his hand.
He looked back at the master mason and raised his arm in farewell, then turned with her and strode with her toward the keep to get the supplies they’d need.
* * *
Hours later, the two of them were settled by the side of the burn. She, enjoying a bit of the wine Robert had brought along, and he, still dozing in the dappled, fluttering light of the sun trickling through the heavily-leaved tree branches above their heads after the torrid loving they’d shared. Morgana scanned her eye about the secluded area and her sight was dazzled by some sparkling, waving thing attached to a fallen tree branch a few paces away.
She rose to her feet and walked closer to the object. ‘Twas a silver chain. When she unsnagged it from the piece of
dried wood and held it up high, she realized ‘twas a necklace. And suspended from it was a cross of the ancients. In the center, where the two stems of the cross joined was a strange stone, green in color—as green and vibrant as the high grass of the glen this time of year. There were emblems carved into the circle surrounding the junction, emblems that caused her skin to crawl, made her sweat, brought on a vision of fire and clashing swords, a woman’s hysterical screams. “Morgunn! No!”
There was only a vague realization that she’d actually cried out the words herself, that she was crumpling to the ground, before all went black.
* * *
Robert was jarred to full wakefulness by the sound of his wife’s voice. A bit dazed with sleep, it took him a moment to find her as he jolted into a sitting position and looked around. When he saw her recumbent form splayed on the ground a bit away, he bellowed, “Morgana!” then leapt to his feet and jogged over to her.
As he knelt down next to her, he turned her over onto her back so he could see her face, feel her cheeks and brow. Her skin was cool, cooler than it should have been, and clammy. White. White as hoarfrost on the heath in winter. “Morgana,” he said near her ear. It took two more attempts, but finally her eyelids fluttered and opened. Her brows came together as she gazed up at him in confusion.
“You swooned. Is it the babe?” he said anxiously, running his hand and eye down to her belly. “Are you in pain?”
His wife shook her head and tried to sit up, but Robert pressed his hand to her shoulder and forced her back down. “Rest a moment longer.”
After retrieving the cup of wine she’d left near the blanket they had been sitting on, he lifted her up only far enough to drink some of it down. “Are you sure the babe is well? That you are well?”