by K. E. Saxon
Yet, he could not.
Fear screeched through his middle, making his pulse pound.
He’d nearly lost her.
And, it had only been two days.
And he could not have her heavy with his child again while the uncle and his minions plotted against them.
He’d not risk it.
Rolling to his side, he stuffed a pillow behind his back as barrier between him and the temptation resting next to him. If ‘twere not for the other danger to Morgana, for which he must keep her in his sights, he’d quit the chamber, find his rest in another part of the keep.
Closing his eyes and taking in long, slow breaths, Robert at last began to drift into a restless sleep.
* * *
Morgana bit down hard on her trembling lip. Tears trickled from the corner of her eyes and she squeezed her lids shut, pushing the moisture free, then surreptitiously used the edge of the linen sheet to dry her cheeks.
He’d not even touched her. Not a peck on the cheek, not a gentle brush of the fingertips to her hair, not a stroke of the palm o’er her hip. Naught. And what new agony was this that he was so repulsed by her that he had to place a barrier between them to sleep?
Did he hate her now? Mean to punish her? She hadn’t thought so earlier, but now she wondered if ‘twas truth. Was that why she’d been hurried back to their bedchamber earlier in the day, prisoned here with a stoic, stern-faced guard at her door, and refused the request to have Modron brought in to her, to comfort her, to give her more of the words of solace she craved, more answers to the questions she still had regarding Modron’s loss of her own unborn babes?
She heard more than felt the slide of his foot against the linen sheet and it snatched her breath as hope surged. But when naught more than a bleak quiet enshrouded their marriage bed once more, with a valley of cold air between them too wide to cross, Morgana covered her face with both hands and silently sobbed into her pillow.
Aye, it must be so. For, he’d not visited her all day. Not once. Not since she’d told him she’d lost his son, and he’d offered to give her another to replace him.
Aye, ‘twas truth, that at the time he’d proposed the notion, she’d been hurt by the seeming callousness of his response to the loss of their babe. But now, after hours of doing naught but thinking about that short time during and after the grievous blow they’d taken, she knew that ‘twas merely Robert’s own manly need to fix what was wrong or broken that made him proffer such.
And even tho’ she had little to no desire to make another babe with him this soon after the loss of the other—assuming she could even carry one to childbed without her body expelling it again much too soon, the thought of which brought on a new terror and turmoil in her chest—still she craved his arms about her, the comfort of his muscular chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of his skin, the bristle of his unshaven chin upon her forehead.
Where had he been so late into the night? With Vika? The thought came unbidden, but once it came, it took hold of her imagination like a hungry wolf to the neck of its prey and would not let go. She knew—she’d heard—that Vika was feeling well enough again to leave her chamber and take some air out in the garden, that she’d even come down to break her fast this very morn. Had Robert joined her? A spike of jealousy pierced her heart, followed by anger, followed by hurt.
Morgana bit down hard on the side of her finger. Had Vika been told that Morgana had lost Robert’s babe? Tho’ she loved her cousin dearly for all the care, the guidance, the liberal acceptance she’d given her at court—and even for the gift of Robert she’d given her—Morgana still could not stem the worry that, now that Vika was heavy with Robert’s babe, and now that Morgana was not, Vika would begin to see the benefit of a wedded alliance with the man. Especially, as he no longer needed her fortune for his clan.
And there was no doubt—no doubt—that Robert and Vika shared a passion for the other. Mayhap, even stronger than that which, until by the proof of this long day, and this long lonely night, Morgana and Robert had shared.
In that moment, Morgana made a decision: From this day forth, she would watch very closely the two of them. She would watch the two of them, and she would also test Robert’s desire for her, his wife. And if my fears prove right? She stifled a moan. She would fight for him, then! Surely, what they’d shared before...before...they would find again! And, she would remind him of just that, with her body, and with her loving care of him. But what if the madness returns? What if this thing that is wrong with you also means you cannot bear his bairns? What then? Will you force him to foreswear the begetting of legitimate sons? Will you pay no heed to his begetting of bastard sons with another, even if he does return to bedding you, even if he does not? She recalled the night of her wedding, recalled her thoughts, recalled her promise to herself that she would meekly allow Robert’s faithlessness to her, meekly allow his bedding another, but that was before, before the bond had grown too strong to break so easily. Morgana buried her face in the pillow, clenching her fist around the cushioned edge and silently sobbed. The words of Ma dame Aliénor floated through her mind: “Love is not jealous, or proud, Morgana, ‘tis generous and kind.”
Rolling onto her back and resting her hands, one atop of the other, under her breasts, she took in a ragged breath. Aye, love was generous, love was kind. And she loved Robert. She would not covet what she could not have. So, if her fears were proved right, if Robert spurned her, but desired the company and attentions of her cousin, Vika, then she would try—she would!—to not stand in the way of their happiness, nor their ability to wed before Vika’s babe was born, thus making it a legitimate bairn to the Laird of the MacVie clan.
With that troubling, yet noble resolution made, Morgana swept in a deep, calming breath, allowed her swollen lids to droop o’er her stinging eyes, and, on the slow exhale, drifted into an uneasy slumber tinged with heartache.
* * *
“Pater noster, qui es in caelis...”
Robert jerked awake, eyes wide, but unfocused on the pitch dark of night surrounding him.
“...Sanctificetur nomen tuum—”
He rolled over and faced his wife, her shadowy form upright, and listened to the lovely sounds of her singing. It both enchanted and worried him.
“Et ne nos inducas—Mama! Mama!” Her voice was high, that of a bairn. She extended her hand in the darkness.
Robert sprung up and reached for her, but she lurched away.
“Do not hurt her!” She covered her face with her hands. “Nay!”
Robert would not, could not, let her be. He wrapped his arms around her and she surprised him when, instead of further combat, she curled into his body, as a bairn would, with her damp cheek against his chest.
“Papa, where did you go? You must save Mama from that evil man!” She pressed her nose into the center of his chest and dug her nails into his forearm. “He hurt her, Papa! He made her lip bleed and he—he got on top of her! She made me cover my eyes and...,” Morgana yawned, and the next word Robert barely caught, “...sing….” His wife went limp in his embrace and after a moment, he gently settled her head on the pillow once more.
‘Twas several more hours, not long before dawn, that Robert’s mind at last quieted and he was able to again close his eyes and get a short bit more sleep.
* * *
Later that morn, Morgana woke to find Robert sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, staring down at her with drawn brows and silver-grey eyes that had lost their sheen. Her pulse sped as she rolled to her back and gazed up at him, waiting for what e’er he might impart. For, ‘twas evident that something of grave import weighed heavy on his mind.
“You slept well?” he said at last.
She nodded. Why does he grip his hands? Can he not bear to touch me?
“You sang in your sleep again.”
Something close to panic rose in her breast, nearly choking her. She gave a jerky nod.
“Morgana—” He reached out a hand as if he would
take hers, then evidently thought better of it, for instead, it descended to grip his other one once again. She watched his eyes move o’er her face in the long pause that followed before he at last continued, saying, “Morgana, you spoke. This night past, you spoke. You spoke, I believe, about what happened to you, to your mother and father that day.”
Morgana’s gorge shot up into her throat and she pushed him away, scrambled from the bed, barely made it to the bowl on the washstand before the bile in her empty stomach spewed forth. When she lifted up again, she was startled to find Robert directly behind her, so close her backside pressed into his groin, her shoulders grazed his warm chest. His heavily muscled forearm came into her peripheral view and a dry towel gently swiped across her mouth and cheeks, while his other hand poured some water into the pewter cup on the stand. ‘Twas the closest to a comforting embrace she’d received from him since the night she lost their babe.
After she rinsed the sour taste from her mouth, after she’d swallowed down a small portion of the water to ease the sting in her throat, and after he’d walked with her back to the bed and settled her there once more, he said, “So, you do recall what happened that day?”
The same vague images that had attempted to force themselves into her mind that first day of Vika’s arrival tried to lodge there again, but the clawing dread the images caused made her gasp for air, and they quickly fled again.
Somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, she knew Robert had leapt to his feet, had called her name, had taken hold of her shoulders, but all she could do was paw at her throat, at her gaping mouth, in an attempt to draw in a breath. Hot tears stung her cheeks, but ‘twas not until his strong arm braced her back, until a cool cloth touched her forehead and face that the inner turmoil calmed and she was once again able to suck air into her lungs.
Sometime in the midst of the panic, Robert had poured a bit of wine into a cup for her. Clearly, he’d been frantic, for the red color stained the front of his tunic and dripped off the back of his hand as he gave it to her, saying, “Drink. ‘Twill calm you.”
The wine did calm her and after a moment she placed the empty cup on the table next to the bed. As she did so, he said, “I had hoped, mayhap, that the return of your voice this night past, the memory of what happened, was some proof that you were healing, but I see now, that ‘twas not the case. We’ll not speak of it again.” He reached out and patted her hand rather awkwardly and Morgana once again worried that he’d ne’er touch her with passion or tender regard again. He says it not, but he thinks it. She was more a bane than a boon to him, with her strange spells of memory or madness, and no voice.
He rose from the bed and walked over to gaze out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He stood there, silent, for such long moments, that Morgana began to wonder if he was through speaking with her and was now making mental plans for the remainder of his day.
After another fretful moment, she began to rise, thinking she’d wash and dress, break her fast. What e’er she did, however, ‘twould not include ruminating more on what Robert had revealed to her earlier. If she was to stay in control of her mind, of her senses, and not be a burden to her husband, she had to keep those visions well at bay.
She had only taken a step or two toward the washstand when Robert turned to her and said, “You need your rest, Morgana. I’ll have someone bring fresh water for you to bathe, as well as something to break your fast. Get back in bed.”
She truly did not want to do so, but she could not bring herself to defy her husband either, so, like the good convent-bred lass she was, she quietly climbed back onto the mattress and tucked the linen sheet and blanket around her.
She thought surely he’d leave her now, but instead he came and sat on the edge of the bed next to her once more.
He took her hand and stared down at it for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to her face. He looked at her so long without saying anything that if Morgana had had the ability, she would have begun to speak in nervous chatter just to break the heavy silence between them.
Finally, he said, “Other than this night past, you’ve rested well? Had no troubles sleeping?”
Her brows drew together in confusion, but she shook her head in agreement.
“But you did have some trouble, as I recall, two nights past.”
The memory of how cheerfully hopeful her world had been that night, with their babe still snug in her womb, flashed in her mind, but in the next second, anguish pierced her heart and was released through her tear ducts. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she managed to nod her head.
Robert looked away. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “I believe, that night, you used a bit of the sleeping draught given you?”
Her brows drew together, but she nodded. Why is he asking me this? She sat up, tucking the pillow behind her back, but the doom settled in her breast, for she feared she knew.
“And, I believe, ‘twas that next day that you were not feeling well.”
She couldn’t breathe. He blames me! He thinks I killed our babe. Mayhap I did! Mayhap I did! I should not have taken the draught! She twisted her fists into the sheet. The room spun.
“Morgana!” he said, grasping her forearms, “You’ve lost all color.”
He fled to the washstand and brought back a cup of cool water, which he forced her to drink, tho’ it choked her. She began to cough and rolled to her side, facing away from him. She felt the warmth of his hand hover o’er her arm, but not alight upon it, before it fell away again.
“I’ll call for Wife Deirdre. My pardon. I-I should not have bothered you with such foolish talk.” He pressed his lips to her arm and murmured against it. “Rest. You must rest. My pardon.” Then he left her, went out the door, and in a few long moments, Wife Deirdre took his place on the edge of the bed beside her.
God, why do you do this to me? Am I not to be allowed even a small portion of joy? She turned her face into the pillow and wept.
* * *
Robert leaned into the table top in the great hall, bent at the waist, and put his weight on his knuckles. He was still finding it hard to take in a good breath. He’d held such hope this morn that he’d at last hear his wife speak, that she’d somehow been healed, and could begin to heal more quickly from the loss of their babe as well. But, ‘twas e’er more clear now than it had been before that she was not near to that place yet. Furthermore, there were still unanswered questions, and so he’d tried to garner some further clue that she might be able to impart, even in her innocence, even in her ignorance of all that had been planned against her.
Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, he growled low in his throat. He should not have mentioned the sleeping draught to her, he could see that now. It only made her feel worse about their loss. Why had he not kenned before he opened his gob that ‘twould seem to her that he was blaming her for taking the sleeping draught?
But, the only way he could see to convince her otherwise, was to reveal the death plot to her, and truly, he did not see that she was strong enough in mind to deal with the fright ‘twould cause her. Not to mention, the blow of learning that her mother and father still lived. What if her mind could not take such a shock, even if the revelation was a pleasant one? Her state was fragile, and he must not forget again. ‘Twas best to protect her, keep her safe and quiet, and allow her the rest she needed.
* * *
Morgunn stood beside the tinker’s cart he’d gotten off the gnarled man in the next shire using the coin Robert had given him, and gladly took the ladle of water proffered by the old cook. As he drank most of it down, he watched her pick through his store of wares, listening only vaguely to her carping tongue as she curled a lip at one, put it aside, shook her head at another, put it aside, then rattled and knocked her knuckles against another, before turning to him with a nod and saying, “Ah’ll take this wun. Coom wit’ me, and ah’ll fayd and ply yow wit’ some of me best ale while I git yow th’ pan tha’ naids a new ‘and
le.”
“I’ll be grateful fer a place ta lay m’ head, as well,” he said, turning his cap in his hand and keeping his head bent as he walked a bit behind her, “if ya c’n find i’ in yer heart, Cook.”
“Aye, thar’s plentee of ruum for yow and yowr cart in th’ stables, if yow don’ moind a bed o’ hay.”
“Tha’ be very generous, Cook. M’thanks.”
As he, his wife, and his son-in-law had decided in the small hours of the night before, he had breached the holding by disguising himself as a traveling mender and seller of tin pots and pans, using this vantage as a means of wandering the interior of the fortress, specifically looking for Donnach’s accomplices, since Gwynlyan had ne’er been exposed to all of Donnach’s fighting men, specifically the mercenary soldiers he kept in his service, in the years prior to the ambush.
Over the last moons, he’d allowed his beard to grow, tho’ he’d continued to keep his hair cropped short. However, with this new disguise, it now held snarls and knots, and was dusted with ash as well. The tattered clothes he wore, and the patch o’er his left eye were left for him at the burn by Gwynlyan.
It had taken him near to all of the day to travel to the next shire, make the purchase, and travel back here before sunset, but he’d managed it—barely—and was now well entrenched behind the fortress walls, and well placed as well to scout the premises for the whoresons behind the death plot on his family.
* * *
Morgana pushed herself up to a sitting position in bed, using her knuckles to lift and reposition herself so that the pillows pressed comfortably into the small of her back, and watched with pounding pulse Robert before the fire, shed first his boots, then his tunic and shirt, then his braies and hose.
In the darkened chamber, the flames of the hearthfire licked orange and gold light o’er his skin, bronzing his well-thewn naked form, like a statue of some ancient god, and Morgana’s lungs seized. Lord, she did not want to give him up. Please. Please love me. Forgive me.