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

by K. E. Saxon

  Robert studied her countenance a moment, then met her eye. “Halt!” he called out to the guard who’d taken on the task and was striding toward the stables where several conveyances were unhitched and awaiting their owner’s return, “No need. Return to your post.”

  Giving a barely audible sigh of relief and a shy smile to Robert, Morgana landed back on her feet with his strong hands about her waist. She turned in his hold and allowed him to assist her to mount. Once settled, she gave him a nod of assurance that she was fit and, after squeezing her knee, he turned and mounted his own beast.

  “We’ll make as few stops to rest our animals as we are able, my lady,” the young sheriff told her, “For tho’ ‘tis arduous to travel thus, we want you safe in the King’s care as soon as is possible.” He would be traveling on one side of her, and Robert on the other, with guards in front and behind. “We will rest the night in the town of Uachdar Àrdair. If the weather and the fates permit, we should arrive at Scone two days hence.”

  “Which is the reason I want you in a covered cart,” Robert said. “To rest.”

  “I am fit, and rested enough, my lord, I swear it. I beg you, do not fret so.”

  Robert’s only response was an intent look and a raised brow, before giving the sheriff a short nod and kneeing his courser into motion.

  * * *

  “You have not asked me how I regained my memory—my voice,” Morgana said in a rush that eve in her chamber at the inn, as Robert turned to depart after peremptorily depositing her there not more than a moment before. Please. Stay. Talk to me.

  Robert stopped short, but did not turn, instead keeping his back to her as he said the same words he’d said to her by the carn, “Later. After.”

  “Will you tell me at least if my cousin was part of this? Did she want me dead as well?”

  Briefly, almost so briefly she’d near not caught the reaction, his visage lit up with surprise, but then his shoulders visibly relaxed, the strain around his mouth softened. “Nay. She knew naught of this villainous plot.”

  Relieved, yet wondering at the gentling in his demeanor when Vika was mentioned, she took a step forward. “Bu—”

  He held up his hand. “Later. After.” There was a brief, weighted pause, as if he wanted to say more, but when he spoke again, he said only, “I’ll come for you at dawn. Be ready,” before he strode out and left her there, hanging in a state of anticipation, as if waiting for the final blow in a trial to the death.

  There was a time—was it truly only two moons before? It seemed an age now—that he’d been avid to hear her speak, to learn her history. Now, he seemed to want naught more than to flee from her presence, to expedite this task, to return to his home. Where Vika still abided.

  With their arrival at the King’s court growing e’er more imminent, with Morgana’s heart and soul aflame with hope (the hope she’d fought, but had finally allowed to blossom in her breast), and with the profound love she still felt for her coldly distant husband biding there as well, she had thought to give him another chance to change her mind about petitioning the King for aid in gaining an annulment.

  But this final rebuff in his renewed, and continual, brusque behavior since the plot to kill her had been foiled, proved to her his actions were motivated more by duty than devotion, and she would not be that selfish. If ‘twas Vika he wanted, then Vika he would have.

  * * *

  The orange, yellow, and purple hues of sunset washed the abbey in a shimmering amber glow as Morgana, her guards, and the caged cart holding the red-beard made their way up the road toward it. They’d be inside its gates soon, and after that... Well, after that, before the King. She’d been rehearsing her speech in her head these past hours as they traveled, and still her heart pounded with dread—and ached with sorrow.

  Darting a quick glance Robert’s direction before turning her gaze once again forward, she made note of the grim, hard line of his mouth, the tension that gave his profile a sharp contour. His thoughts were on the coming meeting as well, ‘twas plain. What would be his reaction when he heard her plea to the King? Nay, heart, becalm yourself. His sense of moral obligation would no doubt compel him to argue against such an end, but she must remain firm in her resolve.

  “I see no reason for you to face the King, unless he requests it of you later, so you shall go directly to the chamber provided you and take your ease there, awaiting my return,” Robert said.

  “Nay.”

  His head swung around, his gaze so sharp, it seemed to penetrate her skull. “What did you say?”

  A flutter of misgiving made her heart skip a beat. Still she did not bend, saying, “I said nay. I want an audience with my King.”

  Robert’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  Morgana shot a glance in the sheriff’s direction, then turned it back on Robert. “You shall see.”

  Robert’s gaze left hers and settled briefly on the sheriff as well before resting once more on her. He lifted a brow, gave a brief nod, then returned his gaze forward.

  For an extended moment, Morgana’s gaze remained on Robert’s profile. So strong...so brave...so... Her bones went liquid. ...manly-fair.

  But, Vika fires his desire, bears his babe. With a sigh, she forcefully closed her eyes, breaking Robert’s momentary and unwitting spell on her.

  “We are almost arrived. You will sleep,” Robert said, misinterpreting her body’s response to him as weariness.

  She’d not argue the matter again with him. He’d learn soon enough that she’d not be daunted by his fierce demeanor into doing what e’er he demanded.

  A half-hour later, and in spite of Robert’s continued pressure for her to do his bidding and go to the chamber given her, she and Robert stood before the dais that bore the King’s throne in the chamber inside the abbey where he held his court.

  * * *

  “I think it best that you leave after you’ve said your piece to the King. I’d prefer a privy word with him,” Morgana said softly without looking Robert’s way.

  “Nay.”

  “Aye.”

  Robert could not ken why Morgana was so determined to have an audience—nay, a privy audience—with King William, but the sense of foreboding had been spreading in his gut these past moments since being shown into the King’s court chamber. His wife had become e’er more still, her visage e’er more grim, as they stood there together, silent, and waiting. But now, with this newest decree, the apprehension had grown immense.

  What did she fear him hearing? Had the priest done more to her than Robert had originally believed? Had the apprentice? His fists clenched at his side, his blood raced with the desire for violence—for vengeance, sure and swift—if ‘twere so. The thought of either that puling, corpsish priest, or that lumbering, foul-smelling red-devil defiling his woman made his skin crawl, made his gut wrench, made his temper explode.

  “Aught that pertains to you is my business as well. I’ll not leave.”

  * * *

  Morgana opened her mouth to argue, but just then the doors to the chamber came open and they both turned to look. “Guy!” she cried, hurrying toward him. “I forgot you were at court!”

  He dashed a sharp glance behind her to Robert, then settled his gaze back on her. Taking her outstretched hand as she dipped a quick courtesy, he said, “You’ve found your voice,” he said with some surprise. “ ‘Tis as an angel’s.”

  Morgana felt herself blush.

  “And, nay, Lady Morgana, I’ve only just returned.” He bowed, released her hand, and walked toward Robert, saying, “I arrived here only this morn. The fire set by the men is extinguished. There is damage to the new portion of the wall, and there were a number of casualties among the men fighting the blaze.”

  “A fire!” Morgana exclaimed, rushing forward. “At your keep?”

  “Nay, at ours,” Robert said.

  “At ours!” Morgana gripped Guy’s arm. “My maid—Modron—is she well?”

  “All who stayed inside the keep are w
ell,” he answered her, but a look passed between him and her husband, and she knew—in her gut she knew—what the look meant.

  “My cousin is well then, also?” Stop this jealousy. Did you want her and her babe to perish?

  Guy looked confused. “I—”

  Just then, the sound of shuffling footsteps and muffled voices came from the hall behind the King’s throne, and they all turned.

  In the next moment, King William’s arrival was announced and the three of them bowed in deference.

  “You’ve routed Donnach’s minions?” the King said to Robert once he was settled in his chair.

  “Aye, my lord King,” he answered.

  “Come, up with you—and you—and you, as well, sweet lady. Robert MacVie, come forward, for I would speak with you first.”

  Morgana straightened, lifting her head, as did Robert and Guy.

  Robert complied, taking a step toward the King. “But only one survived the fray, sire,” Robert told him. “He is prisoned in the dungeon here and needs trying.”

  “Donnach is not at court. He is at Ràthtref, one of his lesser holdings near the abbey at Dunkeld.”

  “But sire, he is the instigator. The one we truly seek—”

  “Aye. Be still,” the King said, waving his hand at Robert in a gesture to settle him down. “I will have a warrant writ for his arrest and capture, and will strip him of his title forthwith.”

  “My thanks, sire. For he is the man behind the murderous scheme against my wife, there is no doubt. The prisoner has confessed as much. What is more, there is a shipload of copper bullion—from Donnach’s own mine—awaiting our prisoner at Inverleith.”

  A glint entered the King’s eye. “A load of copper bullion, say you?” He rubbed the side of his finger against his lip. “ ‘Twill bear Donnach’s mark. Aye, definitive proof. And being that ‘twas to be used as payment for unlawful ends, ‘twill become the property of the crown. I’ll send one of my captains with his men to seize it.” He sucked in a breath and pounded his palms on the arms of his chair. “Good. Good.”

  “I would beg your leave to go to Ràthtref to deliver the warrant and bring him here to you myself,” Robert said.

  Nay! ‘Tis too dangerous! Morgana wanted to scream, but dared not, as she’d not been given leave to speak.

  The King’s eyes narrowed on Robert, evidently pondering the request. Finally, he said, “Nay, you shall remain at court. I want him brought here alive, and there is too much enmity between your house and his for me to trust that outcome if I allowed such.” There was a short pause before he continued, saying, “I’ll need Morgunn here. I want him present at the trial of both his half-brother, and the minion.”

  Morgana’s breath caught. He knows my father survived the ambush! How? ‘Twas a battle, but again, she anxiously held her tongue.

  “That may prove difficult, sire. He was maimed in his attempt to rescue his daughter from their clutches before I learned of her capture.”

  He survived the hanging! Praise be. But on the cusp of those thoughts, trotted another set. She glared at Robert. “You know my father lives?” she said, unable to stop herself from speaking this time.

  “Aye,” Robert whispered o’er his shoulder, with a finger o’er his lips indicating she should not speak.

  Suspicion gripped her insides, making her heart race, and she could not obey. “For how long? And why did you not tell me?”

  As if from a league away, she heard the King exclaim, “She’s found her tongue!” just as Robert replied in a stern, chiding tone, “Later. After.” It sent Morgana’s temper soaring.

  She flew at him with all the anger, betrayal, and shock she felt. “Nay! Now! You shall tell-me-now!”

  Robert caught her arms before she was able to barrel into him and try to tumble him to the ground. “You are fevered. You must rest,” he said, grunting as he tousled with her. He was clearly trying to be gentle in his domination of her, and his gaze held worry, but she would not be still—she was much too vexed.

  “Sire, you can see my wife’s humors are much expended. I must take her to her chamber forthwith. I shall return in a trice.”

  “Aye, but quickly, quickly. I’ve others who wish an audience.”

  Morgana went still. If she was to voice her request, ‘twould have to be now. Looking deeply into Robert’s eyes, she said to the King, “I no longer wish to be wed to Robert MacVie. I beg your aid in annulling my marriage contract.” The moment the words were out, her anger fled, and in its place settled a cloak of despair. As if outside herself, she watched Robert’s pupils contract. Watched his jaw tighten. Watched his warm, gentle grasp on her arms fall away. Watched him step back a pace and turn to face his King once more.

  “If it be her wish, then...’tis my wish as well, sire,” he said.

  “I will have her, my lord King, if Robert will not,” Guy said, stepping forward.

  Morgana could only blink at him.

  “I’ll see you dead first,” Robert growled.

  A calculating gleam appeared in the King’s gaze, and his eyes narrowed on first Robert, then on her. “If all ends as is planned—and I see no reason why it should not—then you will be a very wealthy heiress, indeed. I—and your father, of course—will benefit mightily from a better alliance.”

  “I knew it! I knew you wanted her for your own,” Robert said to Guy, as if the King had not spoken. Nose to nose, the two men glared into each other’s eyes, lungs blowing.

  “Aye, she’s a tasty morsel. And clearly, you were not man enough for her.”

  In a lighting flash, Robert punched him in the gut. Guy staggered back a step, bent over and wheezing.

  “Meet me on the tourney field, and we shall see which of us is the man, and which the lad,” Robert snarled.

  Guy lifted up, virile anger darkening his countenance, and bumped chests with Robert, saying, “ ‘Twill be my pleasure...lass.”

  Robert roared, gripping the front of Guy’s tunic in his fists. “Or, I could end you now.”

  Guy gave a humorless laugh. “Or I you.”

  “Nay, you’ll not! Either of you!” Morgana said, wriggling herself between the two. Guy stepped back. Robert did not. Where e’er her body touched his—her breasts, her belly, her thighs—went up in flames.

  “A tourney! Excellent idea!” the King interjected, breaking the spell, and Morgana stumbled back.

  Robert struggled to break eye contact, or so it seemed to Morgana, but when he did, he turned his hot glare on Guy, growling, “I should ne’er have trusted you!” He dug inside his pouch and lifted out a very familiar scroll.

  Morgana’s heart leapt into her throat.

  Shoving it toward her, he jabbed his finger in Guy’s direction, accusing, “He is who you were running to, not back to your nunnery! Admit it!” He dropped his head and muttered under his breath, “Fool. Such a fool!” Then, without bowing to his lord King, without another glance, another word, he stormed out of the chamber, in direct defiance of protocol.

  Morgana whirled around to face the King. “Please, sire, I beg you, do not punish my husband for his actions just now. He is angry at me, and would ne’er slight you thus otherwise, I know this, and I swear to it upon my life.”

  “Be still, sweet lady,” the King answered, his calculating gaze remaining on the door through which Robert had just departed. When he turned it to her again, it held a knowing look that she could not ken. “I have no desire to punish, only to profit.” He leaned forward. “Tell me,” he said, in a conspiratorial tone, “what was writ on that scroll your husband brandished?” His eyes narrowed on Guy a moment then swung back to penetrate her own. “Were you conspiring to leave him for this knight before me?”

  “Nay, sire. I... ‘Twas a letter to him telling him I was on my way back to the nunnery.”

  He sat back. “The nunnery? Why e’er would you desire such? Has he been cruel? Has your life with him been so disagreeable?”

  Morgana blushed, bowed her head. “Nay, sire.�
�

  “Then why do you wish to make void your alliance?”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she fought mightily the urge to give in to them. The effort, and the remembered hurt, made her tremble. “Be-Because he loves my cousin, has fathered a babe with her, my lord King. As I have not produced an heir for him, and she has, I do not wish to stand in the way of his duty to his clan, nor to her and their bairn.”

  The King sat back, took in a deep breath, then said finally, “I see.”

  “And my petition,” Guy blurted into the charged silence, “to wed with the lady Morgana, my lord King? Will you consider it?”

  Morgana whirled to face Guy, “Nay! Surely, you were not in earnest. I—”

  “Aye. If Morgunn agrees, and if you offer the right bride price, I will consider your suit. If I decide to aid this lady in her cause.” He turned his gaze on Morgana and studied her for a long, charged moment. Finally, he said, “Aye. I will aid you in this pursuit to nullify your vows.”

  Morgana’s heart dropped into her stomach, and it began to churn. She’d done what she came to do. ‘Twas over—or near to. So why did everything within her revolt? From somewhere far away, she realized the King was still speaking to her, and she gave herself a mental shake, struggling to listen.

  “...others to see this day. A guard awaits your exit,” the King said brusquely, “just outside these doors, he will escort you to your chamber.” He leaned forward once again, giving her a stern look and wagging a beringed finger at her. “And you will stay within it until I send for you.”

  Morgana wanted naught more than to argue, to tell him she’d been wrong, to tell him she did not wish to have her bonds to Robert broken after all, but recalling the childing Vika, and the joyful words Robert had spoken the eve he’d felt beneath his palm his babe move within Vika’s womb: “Aye, he’s a strong, bold one, is he. A fine MacVie,” she forcefully refrained, instead bowing, giving reverent assent.

  * * *

  Robert slammed the door of his bedchamber, stormed first to his satchel, yanked the skin of uisge beatha from it, took several long pulls on it, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then dropped the half-full skin to the table next to the bed and stomped over to the window, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared out at the courtyard below. A brief period of time passed with him standing there, stoic, his mind blank, his heart in shreds, before he unfolded his arms and stared at the crushed scroll in his sweaty fist. With hands that shook with pent-up anger and heartache, he unfurled the parchment. At first, the words swam before him in a tangle of fragmented curves and lines, but after a moment of vigorous effort, he was again able to put meaning to symbol.