“I’ll see another cottage is built for you,” Morgan promised the widow.
“Nay! I — I mean, thank ye kindly, milord. Oh, I’ve been thinkin’ of leavin’ anyway, to join me kin up in Cardigan.” Iona babbled the excuse as she scraped back strands of ash-stained hair from her face. She juggled the baby to her other arm. The babe let out a thin, hungry cry. Iona must have sensed Morgan’s rising frustration, for she wouldn’t meet his eye.
“As you wish,” Morgan said shortly. “I trust there is someone you can stay with until morn? It does not appear the rain has any intentions of stopping soon.”
Iona nodded. An older woman, who had been closely observing their exchange of words, moved forward. Her expression was belligerent.
“I be Iona’s cousin by marriage,” the woman stoutly declared. “Since Vaughn’s death, I been keepin’ an eye out for Iona an’ the wee ones. They’ll be stayin’ with me now.”
This one didn’t shrink from meeting Morgan’s gaze. He didn’t mistake the mixture of thinly veiled contempt and hatred. The emotions shone, dagger-fashion, in her eyes.
“Then I guess we can depart, men.” Morgan wearily addressed the handful who had accompanied him from Falcon’s Lair. “There’s not much else we can do here.”
When he turned and walked back to the wagon, Morgan heard several hisses aimed in his direction. It was no use singling out the culprits. Most of the villagers milled about in the rain and muck, gawking at the burned cottage and their overlord.
Morgan kept walking, rigid with anger. But he was too tired and dispirited to try and reason with these folk. The same men and women casting him dark looks now were the ones he anonymously sent food and clothing to during the hard winter months.
Morgan knew them for the proud, independent people they were; he wondered what they would do if they learned he had been their secret benefactor. He knew of none who had refused his aid. They most probably assumed it came from the nearby abbey. Why they would accept charity from the Church, and not him, was maddening indeed.
Iona Sayer was one of the few who directly experienced Morgan’s generosity. He saw what it had cost the widow and her family. He swore he would not waste his efforts again.
SOMEONE STEPPED FORWARD FROM the shadows, just as Morgan prepared to leave with his men. It was Evan Howell, nervously twisting his sooty hands before him.
“Milord,” the towheaded lad stammered, glancing about furtively. “I know who set the fire.”
Morgan glanced at the boy as he stacked the wagon bed with empty buckets.
“Speak up, then.”
Evan worried his lower lip between his teeth. He obviously feared the confession to come. But the truth finally won out, spewed out as poison from a festering wound.
“’Twas Renfrew, milord,” Evan blurted.
“My own steward?” Morgan was incredulous. It did not last long. He recalled the man’s repeated insubordination and base thievery over the years.
“Aye, milord.” Evan hung his head and scraped at the dirt with a bare toe. “He wanted to rut with the Widow Sayer, only she’d have none of him, milord. He called Iona ... ah ... a kept woman in front of everyone.”
“God’s teeth,” Morgan swore. “Why?”
Evan blushed bright red. “’Cause you gave her the cottage and land scotfree, after her husband’s death.”
“Ridiculous,” Morgan snapped.
“I know ’twas only kindness on your part, milord, but some of the others thought different-like.”
Morgan frowned. “Is there more, Evan?”
Evan gulped. He seemed stricken dumb in Morgan’s presence. He could hardly speak. With great effort he continued, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat.
“Renfrew warned all of us that to work for you was to work for Lord Satan himself. He promised to keep the villagers safe from you, milord, if they gave him a third portion of their profits.”
Morgan looked at him appalled and Evan quickly added, “I ne’er believed it for a minute, milord. I remember you was nothing but kind to me and my mum a’fore she died. You gave us food and shelter. You came to the house when Mum was dying. Brought the priest with you, clear from Tregaron. I know those books I have came from you.”
With some effort Morgan followed the lad’s rambling conversation. “Books, Evan?”
“Aye, y’know the ones. ’Bout the knights and fair maidens in the olden days.” Evan blushed again. “You talked to me for a long time about books then. ’Twas you who wanted me to read, weren’t it?”
“Wasn’t it,” Morgan corrected the boy. He smiled a little and ruffled Evan’s pale hair. To his credit, Evan didn’t flinch.
“I ne’er learned to read, milord, but I still have the books. I used to look at the pictures all the time. I would fain make up stories about them,” Evan shyly admitted. “I suppose you want them back now.”
“I confess I’d forgotten all about the books, Evan. Keep them. I am glad they bring you pleasure.” Morgan paused and added, “I know your mother died several years ago. Have you any other kin here in the village?”
“Nay, milord. I sleep in the smithy’s stable. Master Drewsey pays me a penny a week to help with the horses.”
“Would you like to live at Falcon’s Lair, and learn to read those books of yours?”
Evan’s eyes rounded. “God’s toenail, would I! I mean, aye, milord, if you’ll have me.”
This time Morgan’s smile broadened. “’Tis settled, then. Run get your things and load them in the wagon here. I’m sure Master Carey can use an extra hand with the horses.”
OUTSIDE THE VILLAGE, ON the winding road back to Falcon’s Lair, Morgan and his men met up with Mrs. Carey trudging home from her midnight midwifery.
Winnie’s skirts were splattered with mud and blood. She looked as bone-weary as Morgan felt. He offered her a hand up into the wagon bed.
“Trouble?” he inquired succinctly, as Lloyd slapped the reins and urged the horses onward.
“Aye, milord.” Winnie wearily pushed back her wet hood. The rain had stopped and clouds drifted apart to reveal a star-spangled, glittering night sky crowned with a stark, full moon. Glancing heavenward, Winnie heaved a great sigh. “I was too late to save the both of them. The poor babe was born dead.”
“The mother?”
“’Twas a close call, milord, but Molly will live to have others. She’s young. Altogether a sorry business, to be sure.”
Morgan realized Winnie had been absent from Falcon’s Lair most of the evening.
“How did you find Mistress Kat today?” he asked her.
“Duw, she seemed in fine spirits.” Winnie glanced at the master’s moonlit profile. She detected more than a polite query in his tone. She sensed something significant had happened between Kat and his lordship, but kept any speculation to herself. “She said she intended to wait up for your return.”
Morgan shook his head. “I’ve been at the village all day and half the night. No sooner did we settle the matter of the missing grain and resulting riot, when another fire was lit just after we left. Luckily Evan was able to save the family and catch up with us on the road.” He gestured at the towheaded lad sitting beside Lloyd on the driver’s seat. Overhearing Morgan’s words of praise, Evan straightened.
“We went back and were finally able to douse the flames, but the cottage was lost.”
“I thought I smelled smoke,” Winnie said.
“’Tis quiet now. At least for the time being.” Morgan realized he sounded bitter, but he was tired. He was weary of trying to change the villagers’ opinion of him and frustrated by their ludicrous and dangerous superstitions.
Morgan thought of Kat instead and his heart lightened. He looked forward to seeing her at Falcon’s Lair. It had been damme difficult to get up that morning and leave her. He had lingered over Kat’s sleeping figure, drinking in the precious vision in his bed. She looked ethereal in her slumber, Shakespeare’s Titania curled up in her fair
y garden, her long hair strewn about like glistening strands of silk. Morgan called upon all his reserves not to awaken Kat with urgent lovemaking. Instead, he carried her back to her own room, slipped her into a nightrail, then beneath the covers. She never stirred.
Morgan wondered what Kat’s first thoughts were upon waking. He knew what his own had been. His heart was so filled from love last night that his secret had ceased to matter. He decided to tell Kat the truth, and if she still accepted him and his suit, they would wed.
A half-smile played about Morgan’s lips as he imagined the exchange of vows. Kat must be garbed like a princess, in a regal gown of white silk and seed pearls, with a train half a mile long. After the marriage the Trelane heirlooms would be hers to wear. He recalled a group of matched emeralds set in gold filigree; they matched her eyes.
“Milord,” Winnie exclaimed, shattering his pleasant musings. “Faith, in my weariness I almost forgot! Our Katie has her sight back.”
“What?” Morgan whipped his head around to stare at the woman. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.” Winnie’s sausage curls bobbed emphatically. “Your wee birdie awoke this morn, able to see. ’Tis misty yet, she says, but no mistake about it, she can see. Praise the saints for that.”
“Indeed,” Morgan murmured, discomfited by a churning sensation in the pit of his stomach. What difference did it make now if Kat saw him, or not? He chided himself for his dark thoughts. She loved him. Kat said as much before last night; he must trust it was enough.
Just when Morgan was no longer in a hurry to reach Falcon’s Lair, the castle appeared, rising before them in the moonlight, a craggy altar to ancient gods. The keep looked mostly dark; only a few flickering lights attested to any human occupation. Lloyd drew up the team in front of the stables, and his passengers clambered down wearily.
“Go along with Master Carey,” Morgan instructed Evan. He had already told Lloyd of his decision to let the boy live and work here. Lloyd nodded, sized the youth up, and seemed pleased. When Evan promptly moved to unhitch the horses from the wagon, Lloyd looked on with a smile.
Morgan also dismissed Winnie for the night. She joined her husband. Soon the trio would retire to their cottage. Lloyd had already offered Evan a warm bed at their hearth.
Morgan realized his work was done for the night. He bade them all good sleep, then crossed the inner ward to the keep, taut with apprehension. He slowly mounted the row of stone steps. He was anxious to see Kat, yet wary of her reaction. His courage was fading fast. He must get it over with.
Morgan was surprised when a maid servant greeted him at the door with a taper in her hand. He assumed all the staff to be long abed. It was only hours until dawn.
“Is aught amiss?” he asked the girl, entering the great hall. Several candles burned there, but he hardly noticed the curtsey she executed for his benefit
“Oh, milord, we didn’t expect you so soon,” she babbled, and trailed Morgan across the hall. Her voice was husky, as if she had just woke from sleep. “I heard tale that there were terrible happenings in the village tonight.”
“Aye, there were. ’Tis settled now,” Morgan absently assured her, as he strode to the stairs and waited in vain for Kat to appear. He had selfishly assumed she had waited up for him. She obviously hadn’t. He heard the maid close and bar the heavy door in its casing.
Morgan could not restrain his impatience. He turned to the maid servant. “I suppose Mistress Kat is abed?”
For a second, the girl stared dumbly at him. Silence shrieked at Morgan; instantly, he knew something was wrong.
The maid seemed bewildered by his question. “Did you not know of her plans to leave today, milord?”
“Leave?” Morgan echoed. He looked stunned.
“Aye, I assumed you knew.”
Gwynneth secretly delighted in the stricken expression on her master’s face. She would comfort him, once the memory of Kat faded. It would fade much sooner, if he just opened his eyes to her instead.
“What happened?” Morgan demanded. His voice shook.
“A man came, and they went away together.”
“A man? What man?” Morgan went from shocked to furious in a matter of seconds. He strode forward and seized Gwynneth by the shoulders, shaking her like a sack of grain. “Was he some kin of hers? Her father, mayhap?”
Gwynneth bit her lip, striving for an artless look, as if struggling to remember. “Methinks not. They seemed quite familiar with one another, milord. Why, they kissed and hugged with great abandon right here in the hall. To be sure, it seemed overbold to my eyes, but then, I didn’t know Mistress Kat very well.”
Morgan abruptly released her. His face was pale but the crescent on his cheek had darkened to deep crimson. It was all the more sinister by the flickering candlelight in the hall.
Even Gwynneth might have feared him at that moment, did she not love him so much. Morgan turned away from her, with a haunted look in his eyes. Dazed, he headed up the stairs. He paused only once and asked over his shoulder, “Did she leave a message?”
“Nay. Wait, there was one thing.” Gwynneth was enjoying her rare spurt of creativity. “Mistress Kat thanked us for taking her in when she was a poor blind wretch, milord, but said now she can see again, she’ll be moving on.”
Gwynneth saw Morgan flinch at her little cruelty.
“Good night … Gwynneth,” he said at last, suddenly remembering her name. His voice was hollow, laced with pain. He continued up the stairs. Each thud of his boots echoed fainter than the last.
Gwynneth stared after him, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers. Poor Morgan had taken the news harder than she had expected. Perhaps he truly carried some sort of misbegotten affection for the black-haired bitch.
She had only done what was necessary. Betraying Kat’s hiding place to the Tudor soldiers had been an act of loyalty to the English queen. Besides, the wench must have done something truly terrible to warrant her being hunted down by the royal guard.
With a shrug, her momentary pang of conscience gone, Gwynneth went back to bed.
Chapter Ten
KAT STUMBLED AND FELL face-first in the mud. The impact knocked the breath from her, bringing a fresh round of jeers and catcalls from the watching men. A leather thong tied her wrists together; the lead was attached to the pommel of the captain’s saddle. When his horse started forward again, there came a vicious jerk. It nearly dislocated her wrists.
Kat cried out in agony. Yet she could not get up. After what seemed endless miles, her sodden skirts were twisted round her legs from being dragged, and her hands were numb from trying to grip the lead and lessen the tension. She lay in a heap on the road, unable to move despite the pain.
“Get up, wench!” The captain tugged impatiently on the tether securing his captive. He saw she either could not, or would not, obey him. He was furious.
“I’ll teach you to delay the queen’s guard.” He vaulted down from his horse and marched back to where Kat lay unmoving in the road. Grabbing a handful of her muddy hair, he jerked back her head. She moaned. Her eyes remained closed. He noticed his captive’s face — badly scraped and cut from her fall — was rosy and shiny with sweat.
“S’blood!” Captain Howard swore. “The mort’s burning up with fever.” He released his grip. Kat collapsed where he left her. He looked at his men. “We’d best stop and see to her. Milord ordered that no harm was to come to the wench.”
“Then why d’you string her along like a fish, Cap’n?” Sergeant Cobblestone sniggered. He was nicknamed “Cobble” by the others for his pockmarked skin.
Howard straightened and glared at the man. “I’ll not answer to you dunderheads for what I do. I found the girl, didn’t I? Even though she tried to lie her way out of it, ’twas clear enough she’s the one milord seeks.”
Cobble chuckled again and rubbed at his groin. “Can’t says I blame ’im either, Cap’n,” he said, eying Kat’s splayed form. “She’s a tasty bit o’ fluff. I likes �
��em skinny like et. I’d enjoy a turn at this one meself, I would.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Howard snapped. “The wench has a damme fever. We’ll be lucky if she makes it alive to London. There’s a purse of gold nobles for each of us if she does.”
His men argued about who would care for Kat, while Howard untied her wrists and dragged her to the side of the road. “We’ll camp here for the rest of the night,” the captain announced, carelessly tossing a moth-eaten blanket over the ill woman. “We’ll take turns with the watch, and looking after the mort.”
“I ain’t touchin’ nobody with fever,” Cobble declared. “What’f ’tis the white throat or the pox?”
“Ye’ve had every ailment there is and survived ’em all, Cobble,” another soldier laughed. “Nothing could make that mug o’ yers any uglier or shrivel yer cony any smaller. Shut up and take yer turn.”
“Aye, Cobble, you’ll have first watch. Fetch the wench some water.”
Cobble scowled at Captain Howard, and then warily eyed the unmoving figure beneath the blanket. He reasoned he could cop a feel of the jade while she was passed out. She was quite a piece of work. That gown alone probably equaled a year’s worth of his pay. It was ruined now, else he’d ask the captain if he might have it when they reached London.
Lor’, what magic Nell Hatchet wouldn’t do fer a bit o’ toggery like et! Cobble felt himself harden at the thought. Most of the morts he futtered were prostitutes; this one seemed nigh a princess by comparison.
Grabbing a leather bag from his saddle, Cobble crossed to a nearby stream and filled it with water. He returned to the roadside and crouched beside the woman. He thrust the spout against her lips.
She choked and sputtered to consciousness. Cold water splashed upon her face and streamed down her neck. She shook her head in an attempt to evade the relentless trickle.
With a lewd chuckle, Cobble thoroughly doused her bodice next. Seeing her nipples inadvertently harden through the velvet, he licked his lips and moved the bag lower.
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