by K. E. Saxon
* * *
“My wife is still not strong enough to be told of all we’ve learned these past days,” Robert told Gwynlyan the next day. “Only last eve, she fled from the table not a quarter-hour into our meal. She gestured something about a sick head, but I could see that she was about to begin another fit of tears o’er our lost son.” He swung away from her, scrubbed his hands o’er his tired face and eyes, then looked, unseeing, out the window of the solar, where they’d agreed to meet once they were certain that Morgana was back in bed, resting. “I am of no use to her—to any woman—when she is in such a state. She turns from me, only shakes her head when I speak.”
“She will revive, regain her vigor in time, worry not. But, aye, I cannot think of giving her yet another blow while she is in such a fragile state. We must continue to do this work in privy.”
“ ‘Tis only in her sleep that she seems to turn to me for comfort, but, I confess, ‘tis too great a temptation then for me to do more with her, and I cannot risk getting her with child again when there are men who would see her dead.”
“Aye, you do the right thing, for restraint is the only true means of preventing such.”
Aye, as Vika’s childing has borne out. He almost spoke the thought aloud, but thought better of it. Best to keep to the problem at hand. Taking in a deep breath, Robert nodded and turned back to Gwynlyan, saying instead, “What of Vika? I’ve yet to give her any warning of the peril caused by her own father that we find ourselves in. ‘Tis truth, I cannot decide whether ‘tis best to send her back to her manor, or to keep her close, in case I am wrong in my reasoning, and ‘twas no mistake made that day she was pushed down the stairs.”
“I will tell her. Once she knows ‘tis me, her aunt, she will believe me. And, nay, I do not think it wise to send her back to her manor. ‘Twill be best to keep her close, especially as the knock she took to her pate still brings an ache in her head some days, tho’ the pain has lessened, so says Wife Deirdre.”
* * *
While his mother-in-law was above stairs speaking to Vika, Robert went in search of Morgunn. His father-in-law was standing just under the wooden eave that extended o’er the blacksmith’s wide doorway, speaking to the blacksmith and his round, red-cheeked wife. ‘Twas clear immediately that, while Morgunn spent this time in innocuous conversation, he had also placed himself in a prime position with which to be privy to much of the ebb and flow of all those that worked within the walls of the keep. Specifically, Robert noted, the men who completed the furbishing.
When Robert passed by the three, he gave them a brief nod and greeting, meeting Morgunn’s eye and giving an almost imperceptible jerk of his head in the direction of the enclosed garden without e’er breaking stride. Hopefully, Morgunn caught the gesture and would follow shortly.
He was not in the garden long before his father-in-law slipped through the gate Robert had purposely left open, then quickly, and quietly, shut it behind him before sweeping the area with his gaze, moving with some speed to stand behind a large oak in one corner of the garden, and summoning Robert over to a bench that sat beneath its shaded boughs with a wave of his hand.
When Robert was settled on the bench, he heard Morgunn say, just above a whisper: “I’ve as yet not found any who have the look of those who attacked our caravan, tho’ there are still some I have yet to gain a good view of.”
Robert pounded his fist against his thigh, answering harshly, but in the same low tone, “I wish they would show themselves—fight like men, out in the open—but this sly, crooked, cowardly stealth is driving me to madness.”
“Aye, but if we are to win this deathly game, we must use reason and cunning ourselves—and ne’er reveal our intent.”
“Gwynlyan is with Vika now. She tells her of her father’s plot.”
There was a long, silent pause before Robert heard his father-in-law speak again, saying, “Aye, ‘tis no longer right to keep her from the truth of his deceit. And, knowing his nature, as I do now, I will also say this: She must not remain here while we attempt to bring his treachery to full light and justice, else he will have little scruple in putting an end to her life as well.”
“Except...she still suffers from the injury to her head.”
“She will suf—A maid arrives!”
Robert leapt to his feet and walked a few paces away, pretending interest in a large planting of some kind of white flowers with yellow centers. After a moment, he looked o’er his shoulder, saw that the maid had returned to the kitchens, and went back to settle on the bench again, saying, “Vika still suffers injuries from her fall. She cannot make a journey now.”
“She must,” Morgunn replied, “for she’ll suffer more, should she be an inconvenience to her father’s plot. Nay, she must go. And soon.”
Robert let out a heavy sigh. “Aye, I will find a way.” But how? He rose from the bench and stretched his arms over his head, emitting a loud yawn, as he took a last look around the garden, as if he were finished with some much-needed rest, and said, “I will meet you here again before the chimes of midnight. I hope by then you will have found the devil’s disciple of Donnach’s that ‘bides within these walls.” He strode out of the garden, knowing Morgunn would creep out later, when no eyes would see.
* * *
“My father? My father was behind…?” Knees atremble, Vika reached blindly beside her for the stool and, finding it, settled upon it. “I-I believe it not…. I knew he was…. But, this...?” She gave a slow shake of her head. “Surely not….”
Her mind whirred. She barely noticed when Gwynlyan took the stool next to hers and covered Vika’s hand with her own. “Your father wanted what he believed to be his birthright—Aerariae secturae—both the holding, and the copper mined there.”
Vika blinked at her, trying to focus on her words, to see past the disguise to the woman she’d known long ago. Finally, she said, “All these years...believing you dead…. ‘Tis more than I can comprehend.”
Gwynlyan patted her hand. “I fear there’s yet another blow I must give to you.” She straightened, took in a deep breath then said, “Your tumble, my daughter’s loss of her unborn babe, were in fact attempts on my daughter’s life.” Vika opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say a word, her aunt rose, stood gazing down at her with a stern expression upon her countenance, and continued, “Or, ‘tis what we believe, as we can find no good reason for your father to want to end your life—unless…. You are sure he has no knowledge of the babe you carry?”
Her heart thudded against her breastbone. She had to swallow before she could answer, tho’ there was little moisture that remained, as her mouth had grown parched. “I—” She blinked and looked around blindly, stood up without realizing she was doing so, took a step toward the hearth, twisted the onyx ring on her finger Grímr had given her on the day their daughter was born.
“I can see no way he could have learned of such. I told no one, not even my maid. Tho’...I suppose ‘tis possible she might have guessed….” Vika shook her head, turned, and rested her gaze once more on Gwynlyan. “But even if she had, she would ne’er reveal such to my father, unless forced to do so. And, unless my father had some suspicion himself beforehand, he would ne’er visit the manor, nor think to question my maid.” Having thus worked this out in her mind, and flooded with relief, Vika was able to once again take in a long breath.
Gwynlyan inhaled visibly, clasped her hands before her and, with a renewed look of purpose gracing her countenance, said, “Then ‘tis as we believed: ‘Tis only my daughter’s life they mean to end.”
CHAPTER 15
YET ANOTHER NIGHT had passed with Morgana fretting and unable to sleep. She’d hoped to await the response from the nunnery where she’d been raised as to whether they would allow a visit, but had decided ‘twas better to simply arrive, beg entrance, and well-entrench herself behind the safety and sanctity of the holy place prior to petitioning the King for aid in ending her marriage to Robert.
For,
she felt sure that if the King did not (or, even if he did) agree with her desires, he’d inform Robert of Morgana’s wishes and plans and, even tho’ Robert might secretly desire the same conclusion to this alliance, he would feel honor-bound to keep his vows with her, would more easily foil the proceedings, and that would simply not do.
She had a bit more than another sennight remaining to this forced rest as Robert called it, and with little to keep her hands and mind occupied, and with Robert growing e’er more distant—e’er more irritable—when e’er he came to their chamber at night, keeping to a small portion of his side of the bed, or striding out to, she feared, share Vika’s bed—or mayhap even some other’s—Morgana was near to tearing out her hair by its roots to stop the somber thoughts and worries from invading. For, even if he was not sharing another’s bed now, his withholding of his affection, his passion, from her did not, could not bode well for their union.
With a soft sigh, she tossed the woolen blanket off her lap and rose from the chair Robert’s cousin had placed by the window for her a few days ago.
And this last eve, Robert had discontinued even pretending he’d abide beside her in their bed and had merely walked with her to their bedchamber after supper to wish her a good rest before departing again. There was much strain around his eyes and mouth, and she could only surmise ‘twas due to the added burden she presented, now that she’d proven to him with her midnight visions and tearful fits that he’d bound himself with a woman who was not well in the head. Morgana pushed her fingers against her eyelids to stem the flow of tears that were e’er on the verge of gushing forth these days and took in a deep, ragged breath. After a moment, she regained a modicum of composure and was able to lift her head.
Tho’ ‘twas still more dark than dawn, Wife Deirdre had departed the chamber not a quarter-hour past to care for and redress a wound that one of Robert’s soldiers had acquired on the training field the morn before, and Morgana felt restless. Turning with her arms folded over her chest, she gazed down at the courtyard, idly watching (and envying as well) the folk as they hurried about, fulfilling their daily tasks for the clan and the keep. One of the kitchen maids scurried across the courtyard toward the well with an ewer in her hand and Morgana smiled when she saw that one of the apprentices, a big man of some height and weight, with hair the color of spring carrots, and a beard to match, was already there, and clearly awaiting her arrival, for the maid’s countenance brightened and her tread quickened when the man smiled at her.
There was a young wedded pair of pilgrims who’d arrived late this day past and were granted a place to lay their heads for the night with the blacksmith’s family. They were already preparing to depart, she noticed. O’er the last days, as her body had grown stronger, Wife Deirdre and her daughter sat with her less and less, only coming in to check on her a few times a day to ask if she required a sleeping draught, or if she required them to bring her meal to her or if she would be taking it with her husband. This would make it easier for what she had planned.
Hurrying now, she rushed to the washstand and took up the pot of ink and small painting brush she’d gathered last eve on her way back up to her bedchamber after supper. Dipping it in the dark liquid, she swirled it around until ‘twas drenched, then brought it up to her hairline and began stroking it up and o’er the white strands. It worked as she already knew ‘twould as she’d tried it on the base of her braid this night past after Robert left her alone in their chamber, turning her hair a deep russet.
‘Twas a precaution, along with the worn and ragged brown gown made of rough wool and the plain dingy cotton chemise and napron she’d purloined from their pegs in one of the small storage chambers off the kitchen and put on after Wife Deirdre’s departure earlier.
As the ink almost immediately dried, she secured her braid in a coronet around her head, then twined a drab square of cloth o’er that, tying the ends and tucking them in. Taking only another brief moment to study the results as best she could in the silvered glass, she turned her head from side to side and was pleased to see that the effect was as she’d hoped. If she were very careful to hold her head down as she left the keep, she believed no one would recognize her.
As quickly as she could, she stoppled the pot of ink, wrapped it in a long, thick length of dark wool, then tucked it inside a small pouch before tucking that into the woven basket that held the coin she’d offer the pilgrims, the owner of the vessel she’d travel o’er the water in, as well as to the nuns when she arrived, with only a penny or two left for the unforeseen. There was also a good amount of cheese, some bread, dried meat, and for later in the journey, bannocks.
Afterward, she placed a scrolled parchment on Robert’s pillow. ‘Twas a short, and she thought, plain explanation to Robert for her departure, that was not marred by too much feeling.
Then, with a last sweep of her gaze, she took in the chamber that until recently had been the haven for the most joyful moments of her life thus far. With a shaky sigh, she turned and stared at the door. Now, to deal with Robert’s cousin.
* * *
She’d had to cover her head with a dark veil and slip one of her better gowns o’er her head before opening the door to query her guard. It had not been easy to roust him from his place by the door. She knew Robert kept him there for her use while she was confined to her chamber, but she found it odd that he would balk so oft at leaving her when Wife Deirdre, or her daughter, were not in the chamber with her, and the fact that he was as a shadow to her when e’er she took a turn out in the garden, or out of the keep at all, had only made e’er more evident to her Robert’s worry regarding her odd spells. So, she’d had to deceive him into believing that Wife Deirdre’s daughter had spent the entire night in her chamber and was now asleep next to the hearth. She’d placed a fur there and made a pile of clothes, then covered it all with one of the patterned woolen blankets Wife Deirdre had brought and left on a stool for her and her daughter’s use. In order to convince the man fully, Morgana had opened the door just enough for him to peek around it and see the lump she’d made. The Fates were with her, praise be, because her guard did not notice that there were no loud snores coming from the lump, as would have been the case were the woman truly slumbering within.
She’d had to be cunning because she did not want any to follow her—if they would—until she was well away from here, so that she’d have the best chance of making it to the abbey and finding sanctuary there before her flight could be stopped.
While one of the pilgrims she would be traveling with—the husband—made an exchange of a slightly bent, heart-shaped pewter brooch for casks of both ale and well water that the ale wife assured would last them the journey, were they careful of it, Morgana gave a furtive look left and right before tucking herself, unnoticed by any who knew her, under the coarse blanket of heavy cloth that covered the bales of wool. The bales were going as far as Inverleith, where the Holyrood Abbey was to have a fair and Lammas day feast. Morgana had taken it as a sign from the Almighty that ‘twas time to act. For, these pilgrims arrived late last eve, begging for a place to lay their heads for the night, and told Vika, whom they’d assumed to be the mistress of the keep, that they were headed to the very port where Morgana had arrived all those moons ago.
The loss of her place here, tho’ it pained her still, was also a boon. For, because of the pilgrims’ misbelief, she was free to set forth with her plan with little question or suspicion from them. And, as Robert had proven with his e’er-growing distance these past days that she had become more a hardship than a helpmeet, it seemed the quickest and cleanest way of severing their bond.
She brought with her only the small pouch of coin and the other larger and heavier one filled with meat, bread and cheese to share with her hosts, who’d agreed to her request of transport to the holy place, understanding that she hoped for healing there.
The pilgrims—Cormac and Gruach—would be here in another moment or two. She’d conveyed to them that she was feeling a bit
tired from her late night preparing for her departure, and would take an hour’s rest in the wain with the bales of wool.
* * *
Morgunn had come around the corner of his own cart after hitching his ox to it, and was about to leave on yet another search of the outlying land to see what traces, if any, he might find with regard to where the minions were hiding themselves when he saw a flash of pale hose-covered leg and feminine-shoed foot sweep up under the blanket in the young pilgrims’ wain. Prickles of alarm traveled up his spine. A messenger for Donnach working within the keep? He’d follow them. Capturing her would be the first step in bringing the entire plan to an abrupt end. He was about to turn and go to the door to the nearby weavers’ chamber to find Gwynlyan, whom he’d taken to openly wooing these past days, so that he might tell her of his discovery and that she should find Robert and have him follow, when the pilgrim’s cart began to move toward the gate. Immediately, his plan changed. He swung up on the seat of the wain, took the reins, and trailed them out. He soon discovered he’d be pushing his ox to keep up with them, for the couple were not poor and had the means to afford two oxen to pull their load.
In the hour that followed, with no sign of the hider slipping from beneath her covering, Morgunn developed his plan of action.
* * *
‘Twas nearing terce that same day when Grímr at last returned from his journey.
As Robert stood in the courtyard waiting for his guest to dismount and come toward him, he pondered all that had been discovered since Grímr’s departure. There was much to be decided between them, now that Robert knew of Vika’s father’s connection to the attack on Morgana, her mother, and her father all those years ago, as well as the current plot to destroy her. And, as Morgunn had told him, and as he’d come to be e’er more convinced of as well the longer he’d ruminated on it, Donnach would have little pang in slaughtering his own flesh as well, should her presence here, or even her mere existence, become inconvenient to his purposes.