by K. E. Saxon
Her gaze ne’er left him as he came to his side of the bed, flipped back the covering, lay down, propped himself on an elbow, curled his large, calloused hand around the back of her head, pressed it forward, placed a chaste, indifferent kiss on her forehead, said “G’night,” rolled over with his back to her, again, punched the pillow a few times, then lay his head upon it and, she assumed, went directly to sleep.
Even tho’ the healer had said she should wait at least another sennight more to do so, Morgana, tho’ her heart was still torn in two, felt that her body was well enough to take him into her. If he still wanted her. And that, she was determined to discover this very night. So, instead of curling on her side and weeping out her sorrow as she’d done the last two nights, Morgana pressed her naked form to his, kissed his shoulder, stroked her hand o’er his chest, down his taught abdomen, lightly ran her nails through the springy hair of his groin. She felt his muscles tense, heard him rasp in a breath, and knew that he was fully awake to her brazen caresses. Hope and fear surged inside her, for ‘twas more she needed from him than his body’s initial response. She needed his heart, his mind, as well. Bold with purpose and need, she brushed her palm o’er his raging manhood and he flung her hand away as if burned.
If that weren’t torment enough—and answer, as well—he heaved himself from their bed, stood glaring at her with fists clenched at his sides, tendons drawn along his arms and chest. But only long enough to suck two heaving breaths into his lungs before he stormed over to his clothing, grabbed them up, and strode out the door.
Where had he gone? Would he relieve his desire with another?
With Vika?
* * *
Early the next morn, Vika rushed to catch up to Robert, for, she was determined, she would release him this very day from the lie she’d given. Grímr was right, and keeping it a secret, especially after Robert and Morgana’s loss, seemed more cruel now, than it had at the time she’d originally given it.
Oh, aye, ‘twould possibly be yet another sad blow for him to find he’d not sired her babe, but it seemed crueler still to have him find out later, after he’d had even more time to plan for its arrival, for its life.
So, she’d not wait a moment longer to release him from his sworn duties to her and her babe. She had little doubt that he’d draw the truth of its true begetter from her as well, but as Grímr had yet again found her trace, discovered her here, and as he’d only force her to comply with her promise to reveal the truth upon his return of the fact that ‘twas his seed, and not Robert’s which had taken root in her, she had decided she’d rather it be without Grímr’s arrogant, intrusive presence hovering o’er her as she did so.
She was near enough now to call his name where he might hear it, and she did so. When he stopped and turned, gave her a quizzical look, but waited, she quickened her step and held out her hand to him. As he took hold of it, she said, “Robert, I could not let another day pass without telling you how sorrowful I am for the loss you and my poor cousin have borne.”
The somewhat stiff smile he’d given her upon seeing her, froze in place as she watched a shadow cross his countenance, saw his eyes grow moist before he blinked and looked away.
“My thanks,” he said finally and returned his gaze to hers.
Unable to look him in the eye, she dropped her own gaze to the center of his chest. “I...I must tell you something….” ‘Twill no doubt be a relief to learn…. Nay. ‘Tis, mayhap, a balm to your…. Nay. I hope you will not…. Nay. Best not to relinquish power. You are not…. Aye. That would do. Tho’ twas a bit too brief, ‘twas also to the point. She opened her mouth, but when she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of worry around his eye and mouth, the words lodged in her throat. Nay, she could not do it.
* * *
After a restless, lonely night spent in worry, rather than sleep, Morgana stood by her window and gazed down at the courtyard below.
“Ye et no’ one whit o’ th’ meat yer husban’ had sen’ oop jes’ fer ye this morn, m’lady,” Wife Deirdre chastened in a gentle, but firm tone from somewhere behind her. “D’ye ‘ave a bad stomach agin?
Morgana glanced around and, finding Wife Deirdre’s worried gaze leveled on her, shook her head and forced a small smile on her lips before turning back to her musings, back to looking for any sign of Robert from the window where she stood.
After a moment, Wife Deirdre, evidently deciding that she’d not have success with any further urging on her part in getting Morgana to eat more, nodded, gave a brief sigh, picked up the tray, and took it back down to the kitchens, leaving Morgana gratefully alone with her thoughts.
Finally, after what seemed to the fretting and despondent Morgana to be much too long a time, she at last saw Robert crossing the courtyard toward the outer bailey, where the work was still proceeding on the furbishing. With a sigh, and a piercing spike of joy in her breast, she lifted her palm to the pane and leaned against it, enjoying the sight of him: The long, purposeful strides; the powerful, broad shoulders; the large, calloused hands, the proud jut of his strong jaw. Robert. Her heart pined for him so. If only…. Again, and for at least the hundredth time since she’d lost her babe, she pressed her palm to her barren belly and a soft whimper escaped her throat. She didn’t hear it, however, for her eyes were blurred with tears and her tortured thoughts were on naught else but the remembered pain of his rejection the night before.
Until she saw Vika hurrying toward him. Then Morgana’s tears dried. Then the hand on the pane curled into a fist. Then the pining in her heart turned to jealousy and ire as she watched Robert stop, turn toward her cousin, furrow his brow at her, then lift one side of his mouth in a half-smile, nod, and take the hand she held out to him. Morgana might have been able to convince herself that ‘twas only Vika, not Robert as well, who played and teased, until she saw Robert lift and hold Vika’s other hand as well.
Was it to her he went this night past?
Morgana dropped her face into her hands.
I hate her!
She brought her head up, blinked the tears away.
Nay. To hate was a sin. Besides, ‘twould do only harm, and little good, if ‘twas Vika he found comfort with, if ‘twas Vika he wanted, if ‘twas Vika who would bear his babe. It seemed wrong, somehow, for Morgana to keep them apart. For, she loved Robert with all her being, yet if he did not, or could not return that love—and he had yet to e’er say the words to her, tho’ she had thought, had hoped, before, when she still carried his babe, that he might—then she would do what she must so that Robert would find the joy and content he deserved. After all, was not that what Ma dame Aliénor would tell her was the most right, the most generous, the most holy thing to do?
But weren’t the vows you spoke a holy covenant? Aye, they were! And, I want to be his wife!
With a loud sniffle, she roughly scrubbed the damp from her cheeks, and walked to the stand that held the basin, poured water into it from the ewer, then, after swirling the cloth in its cool, liquid depths for a moment, lifted it to her heated cheeks and puffy eyes. Fighting back another bout of tears, she squeezed her lids shut and told herself she’d go to the chapel and pray for guidance.
* * *
“Aye?” Robert prompted Vika, and lifted her other hand in his, giving both a squeeze. “Have you a memory of what preceded your fall, at last?”
With relief at the less perilous subject he’d offered up to her, she pulled from his grasp, turned and began to walk in the direction he’d been going before she’d come upon him several moments earlier. As he fell in line beside her, she said, “Aye. Tho’, ‘tis not a memory, ‘tis more of a feeling. A feeling that mayhap someone was on the landing, that they caused me to fall. E-e-except, who would do such?” She shook her head. “Nay, each time I feel that rising dread again when I think of those moments, and feel that feeling that someone might have been there, I always come back to the fact that I cannot fathom who it might have been.”
“ ‘Twas—�
� Robert looked as if he wanted to tell her something, but the glimmer, the fleet moment passed, as he continued, “—Aye, well, ‘tis no doubt only part of the recalled panic at the moment of your tumble that brings forth the other.”
* * *
‘Twas nearing mid-morn by the time Morgana at last saw Wife Deirdre’s daughter nod her head in slumber. Her hands worked another stitch before they, too, settled to rest in the older woman’s lap. Still, Morgana remained motionless, holding her breath, until at last she heard the first snore that signified a deeper sleep. Then, as quietly as she was able, she slipped from the bed, took one of her work gowns from its peg, and slipped it on o’er her head, not bothering to tie its side lacing until after she’d opened the door a crack, peeked out, and asked with broad hand movements her husband’s cousin to fetch a chest from the next room and bring it in to her. While he was occupied with that task, she slipped from the chamber and hurried down the stairs, through the door, across the open covered walk that connected the kitchens and larder to the main keep, and toward the largest of the several storage chambers, with the intent to find Modron, whom she’d not as yet had more than a few words with since the night Morgana’s babe had flushed from her womb.
On this day, Morgana knew, Modron would be busy with the larderers, o’erseeing and answering queries regarding the household’s plans and needs, as Morgana herself should be doing as well, tho’ she had no heart for the duty. But she would attempt it this day, with Modron’s help, and mayhap, as they worked together, Morgana could get some few advices from her, some few words that would make the ache in her heart lessen by some small degree.
When she stepped into the larder through its outside entry, she stumbled to a halt upon finding Vika in full command of the proceedings, with no Modron in sight, and with all of Robert’s larderers fetching and carrying and scurrying about in obvious awe and deference to Vika’s regal dictates. Morgana had ne’er yet found her ease with such duties and ‘twas clear that her cousin did such with little effort and with much relish. In fact, to Morgana’s eye, the larderers looked much-relieved to have a lady of birth whom they could easily comprehend at their helm. Morgana took a step back, ready to exit the chamber to continue her search for Modron, when her maid appeared through the entry that led from the kitchens, beaming a smile in Vika’s direction and holding out to her the book containing the lists and recipes of Robert’s favorite foods and flavors that Morgana had meticulously begun keeping upon her arrival here as his new wife.
For a long, painful moment, Morgana remained in the shadowed doorway watching as Vika took hold of Morgana’s book and began turning pages and giving further instruction to the women, before Morgana whirled and blindly fled.
* * *
“Why are you not abed, resting?” came a booming, all-too familiar male voice from behind her a few minutes later.
Morgana started, dropping the length of splintered wood and whirling around. She’d needed a bit of solace, a quiet moment to soothe her sore pride, her aching heart, and her feet had unwittingly led her here. To the place, less than a sennight past, that had vitalized her, had given her purpose, had been yet another way to show her love and commitment to Robert, to their marriage. Robert's silver-gray eyes were darkened to the hue of thunderclouds. Before…. Before, she would have given her answer with ease, soothing his ire with a soft smile, a gentle touch, using the gestures and mouth movements the two of them had established together o’er the past moons, but now, still suffering from the blow she’d taken earlier in the larder, and again, only moments past, when she’d come upon the destruction that was the remains of the old keep, she could not bring forth the effort it required, the courage it took.
He had known of her desire to use the old keep. Had he destroyed it in a fit of rage at her upon her loss of his son? Seeing the anger, the cold regard, he displayed so freely toward her now, she could do naught else but believe ‘twas so.
When she made no move to reply, he took hold of her hand, not in the way of a lover, but in the way of a father leading a self-willed bairn, and pulled her back toward the entrance to the keep, saying, “My cousin told me you’d slipped past his and the nurse’s care of you. You need your rest. Wife Deirdre has said that you are to stay abed for at least a fortnight.”
A fortnight! Even tho’ she had no knowledge of the usual and expected duration of recovery for a mother after the loss of her unborn babe, she found that length to be extreme. Why, she felt quite well enough to walk, to continue, if not all, then most of her duties as castelaine of this keep. If only she were able to have more time with her maid, Modron. Then she would have such questions answered from the woman who’d not only suffered the same loss herself, but aided her these past moons—and had become a dear and trusted friend in that time as well. And mayhap she’d know what Morgana might do to bring the warm regard back into Robert’s gaze when he looked upon her. But, she was not able to do so, for Modron (and, from what she had spied earlier, Vika, too, it seemed) was being kept busy now with the duties that Morgana should be about herself.
And now, she wondered again if Robert meant to punish her for her weakness, for her use of the tincture that may have killed their babe. And, as well, if ‘twas to do with Robert’s not wanting her about. Not only so that he might more easily tryst with her cousin, but also, because, Morgana no doubt reminded him, when e’er he saw her, of his bad fortune in being forced to wed a woman incapable of speech, incapable of governing a household without the aid of her maid, and incapable—or so she daily feared—of keeping a babe in her womb to childbed. And, for certain, there was the other thing—the swoons and visions—which must plague him with thoughts that he’d wed a madwoman.
When compared, as he must be doing, with her cousin’s hale constitution, her loveliness, and the MacVie babe she carried, ‘twas no surprise that Morgana would be found lacking in his eye.
Which only underscored, yet again, the urgency she felt to do the right, the holy, thing; to step aside; to release Robert from his ill-fated vow. For, hadn’t Guy de Burgh told her once, when she’d asked him how he was able to win so often at joust, that a good fighter knew when to retreat, and when to advance? ‘Twas more and more evident to Morgana that this just might be a time for retreat.
* * *
That eve, Morgana, Vika and Robert were having a quiet supper together when all at once Vika took in a sharp breath and her hand flew to her belly.
“What is it—is it the babe?” Robert asked, with a thread of gentleness overlaying the worry in his voice, Morgana could not help but notice.
The knife of desolation she’d had thrust in her heart at the tender scene, performed a vicious twist when Robert’s hand went toward Vika’s belly, stopped short of touching it as his eyes, filled with guilt, flicked to Morgana’s face, before the hand was caught up by Vika and placed there herself. Robert did not pull it back, however. Instead, he smiled—chuckled low (a rare and beautiful thing that Morgana infinitely craved earning from him as well)—and said, “Aye, he’s a strong, bold one, is he. A fine MacVie.”
Vika blushed—a thing that was even more rare to see than Robert’s smile—and a shadow of guilt traveled o’er her countenance as well, which only Morgana saw, as Robert’s gaze was still fixed on his growing son. Was it some belated remorse at giving herself to Morgana’s husband this night past? But then, as quickly as the look arrived, it flew away again, replaced once more by sparkling eyes and a teasing grin. “Aye. Strong and bold he is for certain, like his sire.”
Morgana had gone to the chapel after the nooning meal and prayed for an hour for some answers as to what to do next. Should she continue to hope that she and Robert would overcome this crisis in their lives, would eventually find their way back to that loving bond they’d shared prior to Vika’s arrival, prior to losing their babe, or, should she begin making arrangements to quit this place for good, quit her marriage to Robert, thus giving him and Vika the chance to build their own family through the leg
itimate connection of marriage? The answer had not come. But, now, seeing the tender exchange between her husband and her cousin, the jubilation he felt for his unborn babe, she was sure ‘twas the sign she’d asked for, and had now received. ‘Twas clear—as clear as a crystalline drop of melting snow off a pine needle at Pasche—that the bond Vika and Robert shared, their bairn, as well as the attraction that burned between them, must not be forced to remain secret, but be celebrated, rejoiced in, and allowed to flourish.
She would write to King William, explain all to him, and ask that he do what e’er he must to arrange things with the Bishop for an annulment of her marriage to Robert. If her muteness and strange fits of swooning were not enough to gain that end, then she’d admit to anything—even telling of Robert’s and Vika’s amorous affair, and the babe that was the result—if ‘twould allow the breaking of the legal bond between them.
And then…. She straightened in her chair. And then, she would return to the nunnery. Aye, to the nunnery she would go. ‘Twas where she belonged. The place where she could mend her broken heart, her tattered hopes. They loved her there—or, at least, loved her cooking—and if these fits of hers continued, the nuns would not abandon her. They would care for her, keep her safe. Aye, ‘twas what she’d do.
With that settled in her mind, she broke off a portion of mutton and placed it on her tongue. The quivering in her belly rose up to settle in her jaw as she attempted to chew and, feeling the sting in her eyes, the urgent pressure in her throat to let out a wail, she choked down the half-chewed mass, rose to her feet and quietly excused herself with a brush of her hand to her forehead, indicating a sick head before she scurried toward the exit. Robert’s brows had merely drawn together—in concern, or ire, she knew not which—before he’d given her a nod, then tucked back into his meal, with nary a word.