MORGAN
BARBARA DEVLIN
HAWISIA & MORGAN
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Devlin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Barbara Devlin
The Brethren of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.
Cover art by Lewellen Designs
Interior art by Dar Albert
ISBN: 978-1-945576-97-3
TITLES BY
BARBARA DEVLIN
BRETHREN OF THE COAST SERIES
Loving Lieutenant Douglas: A Brethren of the Coast Novella
Enter the Brethren
My Lady, the Spy
The Most Unlikely Lady
One-Knight Stand
Captain of Her Heart
The Lucky One
Love with an Improper Stranger
To Catch a Fallen Spy
Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me
The Duke Wears Nada
BRETHREN ORIGINS
Arucard
Demetrius
Aristide
Morgan
PIRATES OF THE COAST
The Black Morass
The Iron Corsair
The Marooner
KATHRYN LE VEQUE’S KINDLE WORLD OF DE WOLFE PACK
Lone Wolfe
The Big Bad De Wolfe
OTHER STORIES
Magick, Straight Up
The Buccaneer (Bewitched & Beloved)
The Stablemaster’s Daughter
DEDICATION
For the lost ones. You are remembered.
MORGAN
PROLOGUE
Rouen, France
The Year of Our Lord, 1297
A brisk breeze sifted through the trees, as Morgan Le Aguillon ran through the meadow, chasing his best friend for as long as he could remember, his silver Pyr Shep. Swift and sure, they sprinted amid the tall grasses, which swayed in a delicate dance with the wind. Sunlight faded, as on the horizon, dark clouds loomed, and he took the path through the east field, in search of home and shelter.
“Hurry, Louis, else I shall catch you.” Louis answered with a playful bark, as Morgan climbed the verge and gave chase. The first raindrop fell, and he laughed. “Go, Louis. Go.”
At the border of the vineyard, he leaped over the fence, while Louis crawled beneath the lowest rung. Following the dirt road, Morgan pulled his tunic over his head, as the storm built. When he charged the courtyard, he slid to a halt, and Louis sounded a stern warning.
Six huge destriers occupied the enclosure, and their riders wore the legendary white surcoat and mantle, upon which the red cross had been affixed. The Templars. In the rear sat a large black coach, and three young boys peered from behind the windows.
“Ah, there he is, now.” Father turned and flicked his fingers, and Morgan obeyed the summons. “Come, mon fils, as we have been waiting for you.”
Lightning flashed, and dust swirled.
“Hither am I, mon père.” Curious, he admired the polished saddles and strong horses, unlike any he had ever seen.
“Do you remember the talk we had about what it means to be a man?” His father knelt and pulled Morgan close, and he suspected he was in trouble. “How you are expected to honor our family and continue our good name?”
Of course, he recalled the discussion. How could he forget, when his father could not look at Morgan, and that frightened him, as they sat by the hearth. In his mind, he supposed his father referred to his youngest son’s habit of sneaking into the neighboring farm, to steal a couple of sweet apples, which he vowed to stop, yet he paid a visit only yestereve.
“Oui, mon père.” Struck by his father’s sad expression, Morgan smiled and bounced on his heels. “Is something wrong?”
It was then he noticed his mother, standing in the entry with his brother, and both were crying. That was his first clue that all was not well. To his left, one of the strangers dismounted, opened the door of the coach, and stood as sentry, as Louis growled and bared his teeth.
“It is time for you to grow up, mon fils. It is time to make me proud.” His father bowed his head and hugged Morgan tight. “You are blessed with an incredible opportunity, which I know you will not waste.” Father tucked a stray tendril of Morgan’s unruly hair behind his ear. “Today, you journey to La Rochelle, whither you will live at Vauclair Castle and train as a Templar, and it is a very great privilege afforded a fortunate few, of which you are one.”
“You are sending me away?” Terror gripped him in the throes of panic, and swallowed hard. The dog snarled, and Morgan snapped his fingers, and Louis quieted and sat. “Wherefore, mon père? What have I done?”
“The fault is not yours.” Father wiped a stray tear and kissed Morgan’s forehead. “But there is naught for you, hither. By law, everything goes to your brother, and whither would that leave you when I am gone? Thus I surrender you into the safekeeping of those who would protect you. They would grant you a distinguished occupation, and you would never be alone.”
“But I can take care of him.” Stomping a foot, Guarin fought with their mother, yet she did not relent. “I promise, I will give him a home, if you let him stay. Prithee, mon père.”
“Nay.” Father closed his eyes and rested his palms to Morgan’s shoulders. “I have given my word, paid for your commission, and pledged your loyalty to the Order, and you will do your duty, else you will disappoint me, and you would not do that, would you, mon fils?”
The heavens opened up, as if to join in the tragic farewell, and a deluge drenched him.
“I understand, mon père.” In that moment, a chill settled in his chest, as Morgan dropped to a knee and slapped his thighs. “Come hither, Louis.”
Wagging his tail, Louis whined and licked Morgan’s chin for the last time, as he scratched the dog behind the ears.
“I wish to say a fond adieu.” Mother whispered something to Guarin, and then they approached. With arms splayed she welcomed Morgan, and he suspected he would never again know the comfort of her embrace. “Be brave, mon fils. And while I know it hurts, because my heart breaks even now, your father is right, and this is a chance for you to persist beyond our modest estate, when we can no longer protect you.” Then she framed his face and kissed his cheeks. “At least, that is what I will tell myself, once you are gone, and you may do the same, because we all tell lies to ourselves, sometimes, if only to survive the consequences of our actions. Know that whenever I think of you, and you will never be far from my thoughts, I will tell myself this is for the best, but never forget that I love you.” She patted his bottom. “Go, now. Be brave, and do as you were taught, as anything less will reflect poorly on tes parents.”
“Aye, ma mere. I love you.” Morgan gave her a final hug, stretched tall, and glanced at his brother. “Let Louis sleep at your feet, and give him a piece of your brewet once it cools.”
“I will.” Guarin wept openly. “And I will keep your memory alive, mon frère. If you ever find your way home again, there will always be a place for you at the table.”
Guarin extended a hand, as would a man, and Morgan accepted the gesture in the same spirit.
With grim resolution, and raw fear gnawing at his gut, he clenched his jaw, walked to the coach, climbed inside, and took a vacant spot on the bench
.
“Hello.” He wiped his nose. “My name is Morgan.”
“I am Arucard,” the largest boy replied. “And this is Demetrius and Aristide. Welcome, brother.”
Just then, the coach lurched forward, and Morgan abandoned the calm demeanor he fought so hard to muster, as he cried without restraint. Staring out the window, he shouted, “Mon père. Ma mere!”
MORGAN
CHAPTER ONE
England
The Year of Our Lord, 1315
The steady drumbeat of rain pounded the roof, followed by a rumble of thunder, and roused Nautionnier Knight Morgan Le Aguillon from blissful slumber and an ale-induced stupor, as he stretched long and yawned. As he ordered his thoughts, after a night of drinking and wenching, his favorite pursuits, he grazed warm flesh with his toes and smiled. To his right, a supple female form posed a delicious temptation. To his left, another enticing whore snored none too elegantly, and he sat upright.
Naked, a condition he preferred to the heavy garb of his station, he rubbed his eyes, slid from the bed, belched, and scratched his bare arse. At the basin, he poured water from the pitcher, washed his face, and cleaned his teeth. After running his fingers through his hair, he collected his garb from the floor.
As he stepped into his breeches, he noticed a sliver of light filtering through a hole in the linen that covered the window, and he stepped toward the wall, peered outside—and started.
“No.”
In a strange dance, he sprang into action, yanking on his black chausses, slipping his feet into his boots, and pulling on his doublet. At last, he donned his tunic and grabbed his cloak. From a small bag, he drew a fistful of coins, tossed them atop a table, and made his exit.
On the street, he glanced at the grey sky, realized he was very late, and cursed. “Arucard is going to kill me.”
After locating his destrier, he leaped into the saddle. Flicking the reins, he heeled the flanks of his stallion and sped through the narrow thoroughfares of London, as he had not a moment to spare.
Given the amount of activity in the various businesses, as well as the number of people out and about, Morgan urged his mount faster, until the painfully familiar shadow of Westminster Abbey loomed in the distance. It was then he slowed his horse and continued at his leisure, because he was in no rush to meet his fate.
A Nautionnier Knight in service to the Crown, he had been born into a noble family with valuable connections to the House of Capet, but with equally slim coffers, in the crowded town of Rouen, on the River Seine. At the age of eight, he had been sent to La Rochelle, along with a slew of other second sons, for whom their families had no use and could ill afford, and commenced his training as a Templar, the warriors of the Crusades, at Vauclair Castle.
That was whither he forged an alliance with his lifelong friends—his brothers.
After Philip the Fair was denied entry into the estimable Order, he conspired with Pope Clement V to steal the vast treasure the knights had amassed, accused the Templars of heresy, as well as a slew of other foul crimes, hunted, tortured, and executed the great men. Naught in Morgan’s world had been the same, since he fled France and sought refuge in England.
And that was what brought him to Westminster Abbey, on that dark and dreary morrow.
At the east entrance, in the midst of a slew of coaches and horses, he drew rein and jumped to the ground. In a series of quick strides, he navigated the cloister walk, which brought him to a double-door entry topped by a Portland stone tympanum.
On the left lingered the other four knights that made up the Brethren of the Coast, along with three wives, and it was another marriage that brought him to the Chapter House steps.
“Reprehensible silk-snatcher, you are late for your own wedding.” Ever the venerable leader, Arucard scowled and folded his arms. “His Majesty was just about to dispatch a compliment of soldiers to hunt you down and drag you hither—after he installed us in the tower.”
“Have you no shame?” Lady Isolde, Arucard’s bride, wagged a finger, in reproach. So, what else was new? “Do you not realize that your behavior reflects on all the Brethren?” Then she spat on her palm and smoothed his unruly locks, adjusted his tunic, and wrinkled her nose. “Filthy swine, you reek of ale and the gutter. You do not deserve a devoted mate, much less to wear the ailette of the Brethren.”
In that they agreed.
“Fine.” Frustrated by the near-constant nagging, because he opted to embrace the English lifestyle, and its myriad indulgences, which conflicted with those of his previous Order, Morgan bared his teeth. “Because I do not want a bride. Let us return to Chichester.”
“You know, very well, that is not an option.” Demetrius assumed a position at one side. “It is your duty, by the Sire’s command, that you wed, and you will do so.”
“Because any refusal imperils us and our families.” Perched opposite Demetrius, Aristide completed the dubious escort, which was not lost on Morgan. They expected him to run, and the idea occurred to him. “So you will abide the King’s directive and honor the oath of allegiance you swore, when we were granted shelter in England, else I may kill you, myself.”
“Prithee, there is no need for violence, great one.” Lady Dionysia, Aristide’s countess, stayed him with a soft entreaty. “Sir Morgan arrived in time, thus he satisfies His Majesty’s dictate, and we are safe.”
“Pray, good sirrahs, do not spoil his special day.” Lady Athelyna resituated the ermine collar of Demetrius’s cloak and cupped his cheek. “Now smile for me, my one true knight, and I promise to ease your discomfit, this eventide.”
In the blink of an eye, Demetrius, a battle-hardened soldier with an imposing reputation on the field of glory, reduced himself to something akin to a pup savoring a treat from its master’s palm. “Ah, my lily, I will hold you to that.”
As Demetrius gazed on his spouse and grinned, Morgan feared he might vomit, because he could scarcely tolerate the sad sack of perfumed sentiment his attached brothers, save Geoffrey, had become in the wake of their nuptials. And Morgan vowed he would never suffer a similar fate.
“Well, what is the delay?” Anxious, he surveyed the throng for a glimpse of his fiancée, a diminutive and unremarkable woman, and was disappointed to spot her near the shrubbery. “Let us have done with this sorrowful event, as my patience wears thin, and I am tired.”
“Had you slept in your chamber, as would a gentleman on the eve of his wedding, you might not be so encumbered.” Frowning, Arucard peered over his shoulder. “It appears the archbishop is ready.” When Morgan stepped forward, Arucard stood tall. “Do not embarrass us, and have care with your bride, because she is forced to the altar, too.”
“Ah, but as fortune favors her, and grants her a handsome husband of renowned prowess, she benefits from the arrangement.” Morgan studied her profile and frowned. “Whereas I am at a grievous disadvantage, because I wanted the younger sister, given she is fair and excites my long sword.”
“I am going to kill him.” Just as Demetrius grabbed Morgan by the neck, the archbishop assumed his place on the steps.
“Too late.” Morgan winked and wrenched free, although death mayest have been preferable to what awaited. “I have a date with destiny.”
Mired in anger and frustration, he all but ignored his fiancée, as she moved to stand beside him. Gowned and cloaked in blue, the color of purity, which was the only thing about her that interested him, Lady Hawisia Van Goens struck him as otherwise ordinary and uninspiring.
“If Sir Morgan and Lady Hawisia will join hands.” Archbishop Reynolds studied his book of prayer and narrowed his stare. “Prithee, if the witnesses will step forward.”
While the ceremony commenced, Morgan availed himself of the opportunity to scrutinize his soon-to-be wife. With an average round face, a pert nose, unexceptional brown hair, forgettable blue eyes, and the personality of a tabletop, naught about her spoke to his lustful instincts.
From his perspective, his only hope was to
look upon her as a blank canvas, to be tutored in the carnal arts, that he might find some satisfaction in life with her. Mayhap he could—
“Sir Morgan, it is your turn to respond.” The archbishop blinked and pointed to a specific passage on the page. “If you would, Sir Morgan.”
“Of course.” He cleared his throat and read the words, which held no substance for him. “From this day forward you shall not walk alone. My heart will be your shelter, and my arms will be your home.”
The singular phrase, bereft of unnecessary embellishment and affinity, yet unmistakable in its significance, proposed a pretty sentiment, which he had heard before. But for him it rang hollow, because he meant none of it. Indeed, how could he swear an oath with any scrap of honesty, when he knew not the woman and enjoyed no attraction to her?
And that was the cruelest cut, in his estimation.
Unlike Arucard, Demetrius, and Aristide, whose brides had been blessed with incomparable beauty, Lady Hawisia possessed naught to recommend her. Then he gazed at the younger sister, whose gold locks, delicate features, and shimmering blue eyes made her a popular lady and dance partner at court. Conversely, he could not recall a single instance whither he, or anyone else, for the matter, partnered the elder Van Goens.
It was then he came alert and realized the ceremony had ended, and he was married, yet he could muster no excitement for the future. Indeed, the more he reflected on the situation, the greater his anger grew.
“Felicitations, brother.” Arucard shook Morgan’s hand. “I wish you the same joy in your union that mine has brought me.”
“And I concur with Arucard’s statement.” Demetrius slapped Morgan on the back. “May you soon produce an heir, to complete His Majesty’s charge.”
That was enough to strike terror in Morgan’s heart, because he had no desire to mount his new bride.
Morgan (Brethren Origins Book 4) Page 1