by K. E. Saxon
* * *
Morgana worried her lower lip between her finger and thumb as she paced her bedchamber a bit later, after Robert’s departure. Had Guy paid the monies Robert owed because of his oath to her, or mayhap, because of the bond he had formed with her while they were at court? She was beginning to believe ‘twas the case. She’d queried Robert about Guy’s reasons, but by that time, he’d returned to his usual brooding, quiet self, and had wanted only the comfort of her body, which, of course, she’d more than willingly given.
If only there were something she could do for her husband, to ease his burden, as any good wife would and should do. But how? She had no fortune to cull from—and in any case, that fortune no doubt would have already gone into Robert’s hands at their marriage, if she’d had one. But still.
She swung around and began the trek across the floor once more.
Was there some way, some means she’d not already pondered, of bringing more coin into Robert’s coffers with the methods that were already available to them?
She halted and lifted her gaze. Or….
Should she send a missive to Guy—request that he forgive the debt, as he’d sworn he’d do when she’d agreed to run away with him?
But, if Robert discovered she’d done so….
Morgana shook her head. Nay. She would not betray her husband’s trust by doing such without his knowledge and agreement.
Should she ask Robert if he would allow her to do so?
Nay. On this she was certain he would ne’er agree. There were too many years of enmity between the two, and her husband’s sense of honor was strong. Nay, he was bound to pay the debt and he’d not allow Guy to forgive even a fraction of it, even if Guy could be persuaded to do so.
But how, then, might she aid her husband’s cause? Nibbling her thumbnail, and taking another turn across the small expanse of floor, her eye scanned then caught on a newly-dyed length of crimson wool one of the weavers had brought to her a few days past for her approval. An idea struck and Morgana rushed over and lifted the cloth, noting again its fine weave, its lush texture.
A grin bloomed on her countenance and she pressed her cheek into the softness as she whirled ‘round and ‘round. This was the answer! She’d expand their cloth trade! Hadn’t they sold all their goods on the first day of the fair during this past Whitsonen day? Those fairs went on for days. If she could manage to gather more clanswomen to weave, spin, and dye, why, she just knew they could triple their profit at next year’s fair!
And wouldn’t her husband be relieved? Mayhap, even proud of her? Or, at least, he might find the strain of her spells and lack of speech easier to bear.
On that last thought, Morgana’s determination grew six-fold. If this might not only increase Robert’s purse, but lessen the burdens forced upon him, then she would do what e’er she must to succeed.
* * *
Tho’ the knowledge and worry o’er the coin he owed Guy de Burgh was well-entrenched in Robert’s mind, he had not forgotten the reason for Vika’s visit. Unfortunately, she did not come down to break her fast until the nooning meal of the following day, having sent word early that morn to them through a servant that she was still tired, and would rest in her chamber a bit longer. This, of course, reminded Robert of her sudden burst of energy the day before when Guy de Burgh arrived, and brought forth the irritation at both Vika’s and his breeding wife’s reaction to the man.
But, now that the afternoon was well upon them, and he and Morgana had spent the nooning meal with Vika, learning what she knew of Morgana’s past, his ire had eased.
“Your revelations earlier aided me in understanding some of Morgana’s fear, but there is much more to be learned I trow,” he said to Vika as they strolled in the herb garden.
“ ‘Tis sorry I am, but there truly is naught else I can tell you,” Vika replied. Morgana had grown weary and had retired to her chamber for a nap after their meal. Vika wished that she could do the same, but she feared giving any indication of her condition, so, instead, requested a turn about the garden, in hopes the fresh air would revive her. “The brigands have ne’er been captured, and ‘twas clear their purpose was robbery of weapons and goods, as all the guards were stripped down to their braies. Even the wagon that had carried my cousin and her mother and father was ne’er discovered afterward.” She’d said all this before, but she could see that Robert needed to hear it again, was still attempting to piece it together in his mind.
“Aye, and ‘twas only when Morgana came to court that you discovered she’d survived the attack, that she’d been living in the land of the Armorics in a nunnery all these years.”
“Aye, ‘tis truth.”
“What confounds me is this: Why had your father not told you that Morgana survived the attack, that she was alive and well in Brittany?”
“This confounds me not.” Vika shrugged. “I was young as well when it happened—a mere lass of eight summers—and now my father and I see each other little. For much of the years of Morgana’s exile, I was wed and away on my husband’s island demesne, and since his death, and my freedom, I have removed myself as much as possible from his sight, even at court.”
“And since King William told me himself that he’d demanded Morgana be taken from the nunnery and brought to his court, signifies that he, as well, knew of her exile all these years.”
“Aye, ‘tis no doubt truth.”
“And you have heard naught of the details surrounding Morgana’s rescue? You have no names of anyone whom you may have heard discuss her circumstance when she first arrived at court?”
“Nay. All in my acquaintance knew naught of her history. If there were any at court who remembered that time, they were not among my friends.” She paused, furrowed her brow. “But, I am disposed to believe that the matter was not well known, for you ken how rampant the chatter is at court, and ‘tho I may not have associated with those who were privy to information about that time, if there had been stirrings among them, I would have heard it—and so would have you, I trow.” Spying a planting of flowering lavender, she bent to take in a long whiff of its sweet scent.
“Aye, you are no doubt right. Which leaves only the King for me to go to for information. I would beg an audience with him, if I did not have so much to o’ersee here. I confess, her history would be of little matter to me, if ‘twere not for Morgana’s sudden hauntings. They put her in a terror so strong that she swoons most times.”
Vika straightened and faced Robert. “She has hauntings? I had no notion...I thought ‘twas only the one time, with this strange Ankou creature.”
Robert’s lips pressed together in a thin line as he shook his head. “Nay, there have been more than one. One night she even rose from our bed and, dreaming, wandered off outside. When I found her, she was awake, but in a terror, believing yet again that she’d seen Ankou.” He paused long enough to take a breath, then continued, “Did you not see how pale she became as you spoke of the ambush?
Vika nodded, but said naught, allowing him to continue.
“I thought mayhap she was remembering—feared she would swoon—but knew also that I could not deprive her of the knowledge she’s been craving these past moons.” His look sharpened. “And she sings in her sleep. She’s the voice of an angel. Know you of this?”
“Nay! Truly?” Vika nibbled the side of her lip. “Tho’ I do recall that, as a wee lass, she did sing as a songbird, but now...how is she able? I thought her throat had been harmed—mayhap even crushed, and that she had lost the ability to make any sound.” Vika turned and gazed blindly at the color spectrum of herbs and flowers before her. “ ‘Tis strange….” She swept around and grabbed Robert’s hands, squeezing them. “Yet miraculous! Robert! She may speak again, does this not please you?”
He started walking again, and she fell in line. “Aye,” he said, “at first it did, but now…. Now I wonder if ‘tis not more another incident linked to the violence and fright she suffered as a bairn than a healing begun.” He
inhaled deeply, clearly in an effort to soothe some panic in himself. “I know not how to ease her.”
Once again, Vika was stunned by the changes she saw in Robert. ‘Twas clear to her that he was suffering from some very deep emotions. A thing, until just now, she’d not fully believed him capable of. “Fear not, she is stronger than she may seem to you.”
He was silent a moment before saying, “Aye, she is strong in many ways. But this...this...I know not.”
Vika gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “She will be fine, you shall see.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, he turned and faced her once more. “Aye, but what of our babe?” Robert startled her by gripping her shoulders in his large, warrior hands, but before she could protest the sting he caused, he said, “Vika, you are a woman.”
The way he said it as if he’d just now been seized with the truth of it vexed her, but seeing the wild frenzy in his eyes helped her to ken the vulnerability in him, and therefore the humor in his declaration, thus blunting the ire (at least, a bit). She smiled. “Aye. I am a woman.”
He pressed his fingers into her flesh with more force and she twisted, squealed.
“Tell me what to do,” he said, but lessened his hold, then dropped his hands to his sides, releasing her altogether.
Vika had no notion how to aid her poor cousin, tho’ she wished fervently she did. However, still stung by Robert’s words, the imp inside Vika rose to the surface, spoke for her. “Why, Robert, ‘tis clear! For, as you say, your babe is in jeopardy. You must sing to her—”
“Sing! Nnn—”
“Aye! Sing! Every morn before rising and every eve before sleeping.” The round-eyed fright in Robert’s eyes and the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple told her he was extremely close to believing her. “If you truly care for your wife and your babe’s welfare,” she went on, “you will do this thing I say! For I’ve heard this o’er and o’er from the older matrons at court who had weaknesses during their babe’s ripening. They say their midwives told them that a soothing song sung by the babe’s sire was the only, and best, thing for a childbed to go smoothly and with little duress.”
Aye, revenge was sweet. You are a woman! As if he didn’t have familiar and personal knowledge of such! She tipped her head to the side and did a slow shake of her head, inhaling on a shrug. “Of course, if your pride is stronger than your care for your wife and unborn son, I understand.” Last nail. “And, worry not,” she said, with a pat on his shoulder, “I’ll not tell Morgana that you were too weak of character to perform such a minor task for her and the babe.”
She heard a grumble erupt from him, but then he said, “All right. I’ll—I do not believe this!—I’ll try it.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “This had better not be one of your tricks.”
She gave him her best look of innocent surprise. “Robert! I would ne’er trick you about something as important as this!” Who knew? Mayhap Robert’s singing would soothe Morgana and the babe. Or, if not soothe, then surely give them great mirth. For was it not true that ‘twas healthier to laugh than to cry? And, how could demon memories break through when such jollity and glee were being had? Nay, she was not doing a harm to her cousin, she was sure.
* * *
Chewing on her thumbnail, Morgana absently closed the bedchamber door behind her and stumbled over to the stool in the nook by the window. In one movement, she collapsed upon it and brought the hose she’d been mending for Robert into her lap with trembling hands.
While her mind churned with dread thoughts, her fingers worked, first fumblingly pulling the threaded needle from the soft wool, then beginning the looped stitching by rote.
The only knowledge Vika had had of the Ankou creature had been tales she’d been told as a child by Alaric Albinus, a friend of her father’s. The name sent a tingle of dread down Morgana’s spine, but ‘twas no doubt due to her melding of the name with her vision of Ankou, now that Vika had told her of his connection to the tale, so she did not allow it to take root. Pausing in her stitching, she closed her eyes and took in two deep breaths.
There. ‘Twas gone.
With newfound vigor, she set her fingers back to work, willing her hands to still their shaking. But, after only a stitch or two, her mind, of its own volition, swerved back to her cousin, and what little she’d been able to glean from her.
Vika had been able to impart little about Morgana’s mother and father, other than there had been an attack on their caravan as they were returning home from the King’s court. Yet, what she had learned was enough to send rivulets of fear through Morgana’s veins. An image—a memory? Or simply more proof of her growing madness?—kept forming in Morgana’s mind, and try as she might to force it back to where e’er it had come, ‘twould not be beaten back this time. ‘Twas a lurid and vile tableau of a man grunting and moving fiercely atop a woman, with his hand clamped o’er her mouth as he bit her breast. That same dank smell that would always bring about such a terror in her pervaded the place in her vision. The image, the scent, the sounds he made, brought with it a stray, confused thought and feeling that he was suffocating the woman, tho’ Morgana, as she gripped the hose in her fist and tried to shut her mind to the vision, understood that he was actually forcing himself upon the woman. When his hand at last released his victim’s mouth, Morgana saw that the woman’s lips, her teeth, were red with blood. A chill tripped o’er Morgana’s skin, making icicles of her fingers, when the woman said, “I’ll never be yours. Never,” and the man replied, “You already are.”
A high-pitched ringing began inside her head, her perception tunneled, making her mending seem far away before she blinked and looked up. The room spun and a dark fog crowded the sides of her vision. Nay! I will not swoon!
With an effort that seemed more than she could bear, she closed her eyes and managed to force a slow, calming breath into her lungs. Then, leaning forward on her stool, resting her head between her knees, she relaxed her shoulders, hoping that by doing so, she would keep herself from tumbling to the floor, tumbling into darkness.
After several silent moments, Morgana at last felt well enough to sit up again.
Still, her ribs, her lungs, felt too tight to breathe properly. Rising, she dropped the mending back into the basket and went to her bed to lie down. When she’d settled there curled in a ball on her side, in the dark cocoon that the closed drapes surrounding the bedframe afforded, the furs pulled snugly o’er her, and her hand placed protectively o’er her growing babe in her womb, she allowed her thoughts to stray back to the vision she’d just had.
If what she’d seen had been a memory, then she did not want to know more. Her brow furrowed. Tho’, she did wonder (and wondered also, if Robert believed the same), if the remembering of all that had happened would somehow bring back her voice.
She pressed her lips together and nibbled on the bottom one.
But if she allowed the memories free rein, would they grow stronger? So strong that she could no longer have any control o’er them? So strong that they sent her even further into madness? Aye, ‘twas that fear that convinced her ‘twas better for her and her babe, and even for Robert, if she endeavored to learn or recall no more of that time. Even if it meant ne’er regaining her voice. Aye, even then.
And, what if ‘twas not a memory?
Her heart raced and she gripped the side of her finger between her teeth.
If ‘tis madness, then she would fight it with all that was inside her. She would not give in to it. She would make note of what things brought on the spells, and she would simply keep well clear of them.
For, even tho’ it had not been easy these past days to keep the secret of her visions regarding the necklace from her husband, to maintain the pleasant and peaceful guise as she went about her daily tasks, she’d still managed to do it.
But, what if they grew stronger still? Plagued her more often? Were even more vile than the one she’d had moments before? What then? Nay, she’d not give them purchase. For, hadn’t sh
e only moments before vanquished them? She could do so again. And again. And again. She must. For Robert and her babe, she must. Nay—she would.
Feeling steadier now that she’d made that decision, she rose from the bed and went back to her mending by the window. She’d dropped the needle in her haste earlier and, after a few sweeps of her eye o’er the floor, she at last retrieved it from under the stool.
Settling back once more into the soothing task of her wifely duties to tend her husband’s needs, her mind wandered to Robert, and his relationship with Vika.
It had been a shock she’d not been expecting, to watch her husband and his ex-lover together. A shock that, she had little doubt, had more to do with her current worry that her husband may have made a bad bargain in her—more so, even, than she’d fretted about on the day of their wedding—than any true belief that his desire for Vika lingered still.
She shook her head and forced her thoughts back on her task. The hole mended, she lifted up the leg covering for full inspection. Aye, that would do nicely. She smiled with tenderness. Poor Robert. He was so oblivious to such things as this. A man of action, was he, with little care for the torn seam here, or the hole in the toe there.
Dropping her hands that held the hose back into her lap, she lifted her gaze and peered out the window. From this vantage point she could see past the barbican to the verdant sun-soaked glen beyond, and further still, to the full and lush stand of trees that was the MacVie forest. Several miles past that, she knew, but had yet to see it, was the loch that their little burn fed into. Her gaze lifted. Onward still, like earthen sculptures of a recumbent female form, the peaks and slopes of Cruachan Beann buoyed the clouds above them and split the horizon.
Recalling the oft-retold legend of Cailleach Bheur, the old hag of the ridges, she’d heard from the spinners not long after her arrival here, she smiled. If only she could stave her unease in the same way the old hag staved the font on the mountain’s peak each eve to keep it from o’erflowing and flooding the land.