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

by K. E. Saxon

  Morgana swallowed down the remainder of the red liquid in the cup before answering him. As she pressed the vessel back into his hand, she nodded her reassurance.

  Robert helped her to her feet. “We should return to the keep. I want you to lie down and rest for the remainder of the afternoon. Just in case.”

  She nodded and walked over to their pallet, the necklace, which now lay half-hidden in the bracken, entirely forgotten. She tried to fold the blanket, put away the remains of their meal, but Robert would not allow it, instead simply scrambling it all together in a ball and tying it to her mare’s saddle. “You’ll ride back with me on my steed. My thighs can cushion the ride a bit more for you.”

  * * *

  Gwynlyan waited until her daughter and son-in-law were well away before scurrying from behind the oak. When she’d learned the two were off together, that she would also have some time to herself, she’d rushed here to retrieve her cross. But, when she’d discovered the lovers here already, she’d turned back with the intention of returning later that night. She hadn’t gone far, however, before Robert’s cry had come to her, holding such fear, that she’d hurried back. ‘Twas with no little amount of relief that she’d found ‘twas naught dire, that her daughter had only succumbed to a swoon quite common to those who were breeding.

  It took a bit of searching, but she at last found what she’d come for. Somehow, this night past, the necklace that she’d worn since she was a lass of twelve summers had slipped from around her neck.

  Somehow. Nay, not somehow. She knew exactly how. She bit down so hard on her lip that she tasted the iron-ore flavor of blood on her tongue.

  Morgunn. She’d nearly allowed him to enjoy her the night before. When she’d felt the long-remembered, long-missed comfort of his embrace, realized her love had not died, but had grown stronger, she’d been in such a daze of wonder that she’d not recalled the scars. Not, at least, until he’d nearly had her completely unclothed again. Not until she’d seen his own reminders of their shattered dream, broken trust, slashed across his chest in a raised white stripe.

  Then she’d remembered her own, and could not let him see her thus. He’d always thought her beautiful, perfect. As so many young swains had when she was a lass. Why, even tho’ she had been happily wed, during those years at William’s court, she’d had troubadours sing of her beauty. And it had been a heady thing, to know that she was so alluring to so many.

  But, no longer. And, ‘twas her intent, that Morgunn, tho’ she loved him, would ne’er see, ne’er know, of the scars that marred her back, nor the years she’d spent as her twisted captor’s concubine.

  She was a grotesque and defiled version of her former self, and no man, most of all her husband, should e’er be expected to want her again.

  * * *

  ‘Twas just past the chimes of midnight, when Robert was once again brought from a deep slumber by Morgana’s beautiful song, that he recalled her words before her swoon. When she lay back down and rolled onto her side, he wrapped himself around her and began to try to slowly awaken her by brushing her hair away from her face and kissing first her brow, then her cheek, and then her neck. The ploy worked and she stirred.

  “Who is Morgunn?”

  Her eyes flew open and she tried to disengage, tried to rise from the bed. But he wouldn’t let her go. Held tight to her, not ungently, but in a manner from which she could not get loose.

  “Who is Morgunn?” he asked again.

  This time, she answered him. She rolled her head on the pillow and met his gaze. Father. She mouthed the word. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. The Morgunn the woman had plead for had been Morgana’s father. And the voice Morgana had heard crying out his name must have been that of her mother. A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye, tickling her temple.

  Robert brushed it away with his thumb, doing the same to the next, and the next. He pushed the fear—the restless, need to run, fear—that her tears caused him down deep and leaned forward. He kissed her then. As gently as he was able.

  This was new to him, this lovelonging thing. But he was determined to do it right. Treat her the way he thought he was supposed to treat her. Blood of Christ! Talk more.

  “Did you recall something of what happened that day? To your father?”

  Morgana’s tears went dry. Her muscles tensed. Her heartbeat doubled. Her skin grew clammy.

  She knew not. She knew not! All she could do was shake her head and hide her face in the pillow.

  Robert’s own heartbeat increased. “Be you at peace, Morgana,” he said, then leaned down and pressed his lips to her pate. “All is well. I’ll not press you any further.” But ‘twas clear he’d need to redouble his efforts to find the key to her past, for her hauntings were coming more often and with more force, and that could not be good for their unborn son.

  He caressed her arm, then turned her onto her back and was relieved to feel her become pliant under his touch. “All is well,” he repeated.

  As he stroked her hair and nibbled at her lower lip, he recalled again the magical sound of his lovely wife’s voice. Mayhap, if fortune shined upon him, she would regain her voice one day, and for e’er more; she’d say his name—tell him she loved him—before they were aged and gray.

  At that last thought, his heart began to thud with a warm joy inside his chest. Without realizing it, his hand splayed o’er the mound of her belly where his son grew. When he felt the soft comfort of her own settle o’er his, he was shocked to feel a bit of moisture gather behind his lids.

  In answer to that perturbing experience, he opened his lips wide and plundered her mouth with his tongue, changing the tender kiss into a torrid one in seconds. What he needed was a good fu—damn!—coupling to exorcize his unease.

  * * *

  “The cousin comes,” the man said. “She shall arrive here shortly from Perth. Do you think she knows who devised the destruction of Morgunn and his family?”

  The other man shook his head. “Nay. She knows little of that time, of all that happened.” He turned and strode toward his mount. “But she might, if pressed by the husband, tell him of the lady’s mother and father.” As he dug inside the satchel attached to his saddle, he turned his head and looked back at his fellow conspirator. “And that might bode very ill for us. For, with enough of a nudge, the other one might begin to recollect all. And, once she does, our fortunes—our very lives—will be at risk.” Tucking a carrot under his steed’s nose and watching him eat, he continued, “If only we could end this now, cleanly. But Donnach is right: If the King suspects him, then he’s no doubt watching that naught amiss befalls the mute.”

  “Aye, but ‘tis taking longer than was originally planned.”

  The other man nodded. “Still, we must continue to look for a means to kill her that will raise no questions.” He turned to face his companion once more, his hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. “For, we will not be safe until all of that line are ended. This time for e’er more.”

  * * *

  ‘Twas not long past the nooning meal the day after their lovers’ idyll at the burn, and directly upon being distracted in her mending of yet another of Robert’s frayed shirts by a strong beam of sunlight coming through the window of her bedchamber and refracting off her fine silver needle, that Morgana at last recalled the cross necklace.

  The image appeared, seemed to float, warped and stretched, before her eyes, then tunneled, receded, sped and swirled, into a black void. As terror spread, like cumbrous molten lead through her veins, her heart pounded, her body separated from her will, from her mind, as all sensation departed.

  Mama!

  Mama!

  Mama!

  The word clanged through her brain like the tolling of a bell, while she watched, as if from a distance or dream, the needle drop from her trembling fingers, followed by the shirt, as her legs brought the rest of her frame up. One of her feet stepped forward, but found no purchase. In the next second, the floor hur
tled toward her forehead. In the far distance, a thud sounded before all went dark.

  * * *

  Robert took the steps two at a time that led up to his bedchamber. So greatly pleased was he by the progress thus far on the furbishing being done to the northeast wall that he’d decided to take a small moment away from the activities, to yield to his yearning to see his wife so soon again after the nooning meal, to rest his hand on the warm mound of her belly, ‘neath which his heir nested snugly, and, aye, to give Morgana his thanks once more—nay, for the first time—for her calm understanding of the practical use of what funds they had. He felt the not-oft used muscles in his cheeks stretch as his mouth formed a grin. ‘Twas dawning on him more each day what an excellent wife he’d stumbled into wedding, and he knew he didn’t deserve her, knew he’d somehow been blessed, and was thankful all the more for it.

  With added vigor, and an unaccountable lightness in his breast, he said, “Awake, wife!” as he swung the door wide and strode forward. “ ‘Tis too pleasing a da—Morgana!” He rushed to the nook near the window where she liked to sew and knelt down by her prone form. Rolling her over onto her back, he saw at once that a thin sheen of sweat dampened her flushed brow and cheeks, yet she was so still, with not even a flutter of a lid to let him know that she still lived, breathed, that he frantically pressed his ear to her chest to listen for a pulse. Praise be to Heaven. ‘Twas there, and steady. He yanked off the filet and wimple she wore and tossed them aside, hoping the added coolness would help to revive her. Afterward, in one fluid motion, he lifted her in his arms and took her to their bed.

  Settling her gently upon it, he kissed her brow before his eye anxiously swept the room and landed on the ewer and bowl on the washstand. In only a matter of a brief few moments, he’d jogged the distance there and back and had the moist cloth against her flushed skin, soothing it.

  Her eyes fluttered and his lungs expanded, allowing, at last, a full intake of breath.

  “Morgana.” He touched his lips to each lid, then pressed a much more furtive one against her mouth. “Awake, my love.”

  Her lids lifted, and in the depths of her lovely blue eyes, he saw warm recognition, immediately followed by confusion as her dark brows furrowed.

  She pushed against his shoulders and tried to rise, but his strength was greater, and he pressed her back down to the pillow. She looked around, mouthing, “What befell me?” with a flutter of her hand.

  * * *

  As Morgana shifted her gaze back to her husband’s worried countenance, as she felt his hand settle o’er her belly, as she heard him say, “You swooned again, Morgana,” she recalled with clarity the necklace she’d seen at the burn, and, immediately on its heels, the fear it evoked. Had it truly been there, or had it been some new madness of mind? ‘Twas what she now believed her vision of Ankou had been all those moons prior (and what she secretly worried was what Robert now believed as well). If I reveal that I’ve had another vision, will he regret the bad bargain he made in me?

  “Is it the babe again? Should I call for Modron?” He half-rose to do just that, but she yanked at his arm, and he settled again next to her, except this time his expression showed perplexity.

  “Nay!” she mouthed, shaking her head vigorously. Going purely on emotion and against her conscience, she put her hands together as if in prayer, tucked them against one side of her cheek, and half-closed her eyes, showing him she simply needed to rest. She soothed her hand o’er his arm. “Fret not,” she mouthed, then curled up on her side. “Supper,” she mouthed.

  Robert nodded, leaned down and brushed a kiss on her brow, then rose, saying, “Rest you well, then, and as you say, I shall see you at supper.” He turned and departed the chamber.

  Morgana lay there, still and tense, for quite some time afterward, fearing that he’d send for Modron despite her wish otherwise, but once she was sure that she would be left alone until the evening meal, she turned her mind once more to the necklace. Why would the sight of a simple piece of jewelry, real or imagined, send such terror through her veins? Without realizing she was doing so, she fisted her sleeve in her sweaty palm. ‘Tis madness! It must be!

  Closing her eyes, she took in a calming breath. Nay, she must not panic. Before she mentioned the necklace to her husband, before she gave him the real truth about her swoon today—only one day after she’d frightened him with a like experience at the burn—she’d journey back there and look for the necklace. If she found it, then she’d know ‘twas not some trick her mind had played, some madness that might have her in its grip.

  Biting down hard on the side of her finger until the pain o’ercame the dread expanding in her breast, she allowed the other unsettling thought to seep through: If she found the necklace, found it to be real, then who did it belong to? Friend or foe?

  * * *

  Late that night, not long past the chimes of midnight, yet well after Morgana and Robert had retired for the night, Morgana remained awake, unable to find her rest. Her mind would not settle, no matter how she tried. She lay there, still, measuring her breathing, measuring her husband’s. His hand rested, warm and protective, o’er her hip, their curved frames nearly touching.

  She closed her eyes and tried yet again to clear her thoughts, to drift into slumber.

  A noise, sounding suspiciously like a dropped shoe, came from beyond the door that led into the small antechamber of their own that her maid, Modron, occupied. Her ears pricked and she lifted her head from the pillow. She had to strain, but, aye, she could hear other shuffling about going on. If shoes were involved, it meant a late-night assignation. Was Modron meeting a lover? A thrill of both joy and adventure coursed through her, for she loved her maid, and wanted her to find another mate, a mate as perfectly right for her as Robert was for Morgana.

  A wedding feast! Aye! ‘Twould be wonderful to host a wedding for Modron here among their new clan.

  After a quick glance to confirm that her husband still slept soundly, she rolled out from under his hand and off the bed. She’d follow. She couldn’t sleep anyway, and she simply must know if the lover was that handsome clansman who’d danced ‘round the Bealltainn fire with her maid that night. If ‘twas, how long had they been lovers? Since the feast day? If so, how had Morgana not been aware before?

  Morgana made swift, silent work of dressing, all the time listening to the sounds coming from Modron’s chamber. Modron had a door that exited into the corridor, so she’d not be coming through their own chamber, and Morgana did not want to be too late to follow. In another moment, she was ready to go. She waited until she heard the muffled creak of Modron’s door opening, then waited again to hear her pass outside her own, then waited yet again, to allow Modron a good ten paces lead, before Morgana at last departed her chamber.

  She merely wanted to know the identity of Modron’s lover, she told her chiding conscience. Aye, she knew ‘twas a deceitful thing to do to her maid. If Modron had wanted to share the tidings with her, she would have told her already. But, Morgana simply had to know. And she simply could not bring herself to query the maid on such privy matters. Which told Morgana, she truly was doing a very bad thing. Still, she continued on.

  Modron carried no taper. She went with the assured steps of a woman who’d made this journey many times, Morgana thought.

  Her maid did not depart the keep through the front entrance. Instead, she took a more indirect route, going first through the great hall, then out the side door that led into a short exterior covered walk, walled on one side, which connected the keep to the chapel. She did not go into the chapel, however, she veered to her right and traversed the narrow, cobbled expanse between the two buildings that led directly into the courtyard. She was headed for the postern gate! Where was she meeting this lover, anyway? The glen? The burn? His own cot? Morgana’s imagination spun with all the exciting possibilities. If ‘twas his cot, unfortunately, ‘twas possible Morgana would not actually see him, she thought, as she began the lightless stealthy hike betw
een the buildings.

  Her breathing increased. This much shadow and gloom made her uneasy. It always had, she knew not why.

  Sometimes, when she was but a young lass at the nunnery, she’d grow dizzy and swoon, if she was alone too long in the dark, much like the whirling feeling she’d experienced earlier today when she’d recalled the necklace.

  She’d not taken more than three steps when she felt a presence behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her heart began to thrum. Fear made her quicken her step, made her swing her gaze around as she moved. All was black as pitch. Her breathing quickened, grew harsh. Sweat beaded her upper lip. Light! Get into the light of the courtyard where the guard can see you!

  She began to run, caring not if Modron found her out. She was near the edge between night and moonlight when two arms swept around her, one o’er her mouth and nose, cutting off her air, and the other o’er her shoulder blades. The hooded black cloak he wore was all too familiar.

  “You’re mine now,” he rasped close to her ear. He began dragging her back into the darkness, and she fought him. Writhing, scratching, kicking, elbowing. His hold remained strong. He would kill her. Take her into the underworld now. Just like the legend told.

  Her clawing hands brushed the brooch attached to her cloak. She ripped it from the wool and jabbed the sharp end deep into his arm. He grunted and his grip loosed long enough for her to stomp down hard on his instep and yank out of his hold.

  She ran. As hard as she could, she ran. Toward the light. Toward safety. Tho’ she did not hear him behind her, still she turned her head, she could not keep from doing so, and saw only a yawning void. She kept running, kept moving. And barreled into a hard wall of sinew and bone. ‘Tis him! Arms enfolded her, and from somewhere far off, a familiar voice soothed, “ ‘Tis all right, Morgana, ’tis only me,” but still she struggled, panting, frantic to be set free.

  Again, the voice came to her. “ ‘Tis Robert, Morgana! What is amiss?”

  All she could do was point, point in the direction from which she’d come, and mouth, “Ankou!”