“Shall I order a bath?” He pulled her into his arms, and she tensed, which only piqued his concern. “Our new ancere is large enough to accommodate two. What say you, my dear? I will wash your back, if you wash mine.”
“Mayhap another time, my lord.” To his dismay, she curtseyed. “Pray, excuse me.”
As Hawisia scurried into the kitchen, Morgan considered her distress and resolved to console her, later. At that moment, he sought Isolde, because he had been scheming to surprise his wife, and the unexpected celebration seemed the perfect opportunity to launch his plan.
In the great hall, he flagged Isolde. “Is the gown complete?”
“Aye.” She nodded once, and then started. “Oh, Morgan, I get your intention, and it is perfect. Let me speak with Margery, to ensure everything is finished.” She waved to Arucard, who neared, and she whispered, “Take Morgan to the dungeon, at once.”
~
Although Hawisia was no scullion, she was never one to shy away from work, thus she devoted herself to preparing accommodations for her parents and Euphemia. What she was not prepared to withstand was her little sister’s gloating, as Euphemia insisted Morgan was unusually attentive for a husband.
It was for that reason Hawisia lingered on the verge of tears, when she entered her private chamber, whither Anne waited.
“Sir Morgan has already bathed, and he bade me to take my time dressing you, Lady Hawisia.” In the absence of a lady’s maid, which Hawisia had yet to hire, Anne fulfilled the charge, and she seemed to understand Hawisia’s temperament. “Now, let me get you out of that dusty garb, else you may miss the feast.”
“That would suit me just fine, Anne.” Hawisia sighed, as she mulled the hug and kiss with which Morgan greeted Euphemia.
Despite Hawisia’s best attempts to remain aloof and unattached, she had fallen in love with her husband, given his thoughtful pursuits. But she should have known he would revert to his old self, the instant Euphemia paid call.
After a brief soak, which did much to soothe her physical aches, she donned a fresh chemise and sat, as the maid plaited Hawisia’s hair. “Anne, I think I will wear the green, this eventide.”
“I apologize, Lady Hawisia, but Sir Morgan ordered you wear the blue.” Anne tugged on the hose. “In fact, he said he would brook no refusal, my lady.”
“The blue?” In silence, Hawisia reflected on her belongings. “What blue?”
“Your new gown, my lady.” Anne walked to the footboard and caressed a garment of unmatched elegance. “It is a gift from Sir Morgan. Is it not beauteous, my lady?”
“I had no idea he did that.” Stunned, Hawisia swayed and leaned against the bed for support. “Then who am I to refuse him?
Bedecked in two shades of blue trimmed in gold embroidery, she stood before the long mirror, as Anne tightened the laces. Just as Hawisia slipped her feet into her shoes, Morgan appeared in the solar.
“May I come in, my cherished wife?” The endearment rang hollow, given she expected him to dote on Euphemia at the celebration. “I have something to complete your attire, as I find it lacking something.” He glanced at Anne and said, “You are dismissed.”
Alone with her husband, Hawisia seized upon a series of excuses to avoid attending the feast, but she lacked the courage to speak them aloud.
“I am sorry you find me lacking, my lord.” She bowed her head.
“That is not what I stated, my treasured lady.” He kissed her nose and tipped her chin, bringing her gaze to his. “You are stunning, but I would give you a present, which is but a trifling frame for a masterpiece.”
Moving to stand behind her, he draped a necklace fashioned of pure gold about her neck. A mix of diamonds and sapphires, the expensive jewelry boasted delicate findings and shimmered even in the dim candlelight of their room.
“Morgan, this is too much.” She fingered a glittering stone. “I cannot possibly accept it.”
“Hawisia, you are my wife, to gown and adorn as I choose.” With that, he settled her palm in the crook of his arm. “And I am but a beggar at your side, wither I intend to remain.”
True to his word, he never left her alone, when they joined the revelers in the great hall. Wine flowed, music played, and the servants set out an impressive display of food.
Too nervous to dine, Hawisia scooted a savory brewet from one end of her trencher to the other. Eventually, the moment she dreaded came to pass, as maids cleared the dishes.
“Shall I collect an assortment of sweetmeats, my darling?” Morgan took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “As you hardly touched your supper.”
“That would be lovely, my lord.” Beneath the table, she clenched her fists.
Couples gathered in a clearing, and the first dance commenced. When she discovered Euphemia hanging on Morgan’s arm, Hawisia opted to run, because she could not face the humiliation, as he partnered her sister.
Given the throng, she steered left and then right, before reaching the exit. Beyond the confines of the crowded room, she paused, leaned against a wall, and closed her eyes, as if she could shut the pain so easily.
“Hawisia.” Morgan rushed into the hall, and she jumped. “Whither are you going?”
“I thought I would retire.” Clinging to the last remnants of her composure, she hugged herself. “But do not let me ruin the evening for you. Stay, and dance with Euphemia.”
“But I have no desire to dance with your sister.” He wrinkled his nose, and should almost laughed. “I want to dance with you.”
Now that was more than she could withstand.
“Yet you prefer her.” To her chagrin, she wept. Heaving horribly ugly sobs, she stumbled, and Morgan caught her. “You wanted her. You said as much on our wedding day. Do you not remember, ‘I wanted the younger sister,’ because I will never forget?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry.” He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and then indulged in a lengthy invasion of her mouth. “I never should have said that, because I could not have been more wrong.”
“How am I to believe you?” Fresh tears streamed her face, and she unleashed the pain that had so long nestled in her chest. “How do I know I am what you prefer, when you are so fickle? What if you know not what you want?”
“I wager I deserve that, given my shameful treatment of you, but I have tried hard to atone, because I care for you.” He cradled her head and held her close. “While I once chose false attachments and easy friendships, now I favor hair that shimmers like spun gold in the sunlight, eyes of the clearest blue, which sparkle with the light of a pure heart, lips that speak naught but the truth, and the charitable soul that always puts others before herself. Can you not see, my dear Hawisia, I have no choice, as I desire none but you?”
“I know not how to believe you.” But she ached to believe him.
“Oh, open your heart to me, Hawisia.” Again, he kissed her, and then he bent and swept her into his arms. “I promise, I will not disappoint you.” He carried her up the stairs and made for their chamber. “I know I hurt you, but I beg you to give me another chance.” He swept through the solar, strode into their inner sanctum, and eased her to the bed. Lying beside her, he cupped her cheek. “That is all I ask.”
Perched on the banks of her Rubicon, she realized the choice was now hers to make, and she could either live in the shadows or step into the light, as Morgan’s wife, in every way. What would Hawisia pick? “All right.”
MORGAN
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the wake of the feast, and the subsequent revelation Hawisia imparted, which explained much of her behavior and resistance to his advances, Morgan reached a tentative truce with his bride, as she finally dropped her guard and permitted him to woo her, in truth. Intent on showing her how important she was to him, and how lucky he considered himself to be her husband, he expended even more effort in surprising her. But the biggest shock came from an unexpected source.
Amid the official correspondence from His Majesty, as relayed b
y her father, was the conferral of an earldom and an estate. Thus Morgan packed his belongings and delivered his wife to their new home, Wardour Castle, near Salisbury, as the earl and countess of Wiltshire, tasked with farming the countryside, to provide food for the kingdom, which struggled to recover from the great famine.
After surveying the fields, which encompassed some three hundred acres, he returned to his home, crossed the drawbridge, and rode beneath the portcullis. In the courtyard, he dismounted and passed his stallion to a stable hand. As he doffed his gloves, he strolled into the cool passage that led either to the great hall or the private chambers, whither he found Anne, his wife’s lady’s maid.
“Whither is Lady Hawisia?” He doffed his gloves.
“My lady ventured to the peasant village, early this morrow, my lord.” Anne wrinkled her nose. “But I am worried about her, my lord. There is word of sickness, and I fear for my lady’s health.”
“Lady Hawisia is made of sterner stuff.” He chuckled, as recalled the previous night’s foray, when he took her on the dais, in the great hall. It took him a while to coax her, but once they started there was no stopping her. “Have we any visitors arriving for supper?”
“Nay, my lord.” The maid furrowed her brow. “But I can check with Geretrudis, if you prefer.”
“Grammarcy.” Then he snapped his fingers, as an idea occurred to him. “Anne, have Geretrudis prepare a meal to be served in the solar, but no buttered wortes, as they do not agree with my wife. Instead, I would have her cook some brewets, along with the rosemary bread and the apple muse Lady Hawisia favors. And have the ancere filled with warm water, as Lady Hawisia often bathes upon her return from the hovels.”
“Aye, my lord.” The maid curtseyed.
Retracing his steps, Morgan navigated the courtyard and walked beyond the drawbridge, whither he located a patch of daisies. After collecting a respectable bouquet, he returned to the great hall, strolled behind the wood-screened passage, and entered the kitchen, whither the housekeeper labored.
“Geretrudis, have you a vase?” He removed a few dead stems and crumpled leaves.
“Aye, my lord.” The squatty-bodied, grey-haired servant pulled the requested item from a cupboard, which she passed to him. “And, if I may, I thought I might serve some of my special clarrey, to which Lady Hawisia expressed a partiality.”
“Geretrudis, you are an angel.” He waggled his brows. “If I were not married, I just might pursue you.”
“You have no shame, my lord.” She chuckled in an unusually deep baritone for a woman. “Now let me be about my chores, because Lady Hawisia deserves my best work, and I do not want to disappoint her.”
“That makes two of us.” Armed with a perfect homage to his bride’s beauty, he strutted into their private apartment and arranged the vase in the middle of the table. Then he sifted through his robes, until he located the black, because Hawisia declared it was his color.
After washing his face and combing his hair, he changed into a clean shirt and tunic. Just as he sat in a chair by the heart, to await his wife, a commotion in the courtyard brought him to the large window, whereupon he spied Hawisia, slumped forward, atop her horse.
Taking the steps, two at a time, he descended to the first floor, pushed forth the heavy oak panel, and ran to the gentle mare.
“Hawisia.” As the master of the horse took the lead, Morgan pulled her from the saddle and cradled her in his arms. “Darling, what happened?”
Mumbling incoherently, she touched his cheek, and then she fainted.
~
Locked in some strange prison, Hawisia lingered somewhere between sleep and consciousness. No matter how hard she tried to wake, Morgan’s response made it clear she failed. But the agony in his voice tore at her heart, and she ached to console him. To reassure him she was with him.
“Sweetheart, prithee, do not leave me.” His plea came to her as if from afar, and it echoed in her ears. “My darling, I love you, too. Can you hear me? I love you, too. Pray, open your eyes.”
And then there was naught.
She floated amid a dark sea of confusion. Hot and cold at once, she shivered. Yet she was not alone.
A series of images played in her mind, as a cherished reflection of her relationship with Morgan.
The first time she spied him, at court. Of course, he knew of her, but everyone knew of His Majesty’s great Nautionnier Knights, and she always considered him the most beauteous of all.
And then there was their wedding, whither he took her hands and pledged to keep himself only unto her. She did not believe him, then. But she doubted him not, now.
“My Hawisia, are you there?” Again, he called to her, but she could not answer. “I am with you, my love. I am with you. And that is your pet name, which I composed just for you. Simple yet strong, just like you, my love. And you are my love, if you would only greet me, that I might declare it. Tell me you persist, as I cannot live without you, Hawisia. I cannot live without you.”
She struggled. She reached for him but grasped naught. Slowly, it seemed as if she slipped away, little by little.
“There is naught more I can do, Lord Wiltshire. The disease must take its course, and Lady Wiltshire rests in Our Lord’s hands. The most I can recommend is prayer.”
Bereft of any mark of time or place, Hawisia endured in a pensive state, as she recalled the rough manner of the consummation. In truth, Morgan frightened her not, because her mother had explained everything, in frightful detail. But Hawisia had hoped the momentous occasion would be memorable. She supposed it was, but for all the wrong reasons.
“Our Father, I beg you, do not take Hawisia from me.” Morgan clutched her fingers. “I will do anything you ask of me, but do not take my love. She holds my heart, and without her I am dead. Prithee, I have been your faithful servant, I fought wars in your name, and I honored the sacraments. Now, I ask for something in return.”
Darkness enveloped her, and she longed for rest, for a respite from the seemingly unending torment. So she followed the peaceful trail, as from a distance, Morgan beckoned. “Hawisia. Hawisia.”
MORGAN
CHAPTER NINE
On the fourth morrow since Hawisia fell ill, Morgan remained at her bedside, whither he had not left except to relieve himself. In the solar, Geretrudis snored in a chair near the hearth, and Anne stretched across the bench at the table.
“Lord Wiltshire, you must sleep.” The physic assessed Hawisia’s condition and frowned. “Whatever happens with Lady Wiltshire, naught is to be gained if you become sick.”
“I am not leaving her.” Clutching her hand, Morgan brought her knuckles to his lips. “She knows I am hither, and I will not have her wake to find me gone, now stop nagging me.”
“My lord, it is my duty, as your physician, to offer my best advice.” The man shook his head. “Do you think it would please Lady Hawisia to discover you have scarcely eaten since she took to her bed with fever?”
“No, it would not,” Hawisia responded, and Morgan dropped to his knees.
“Hawisia, my love.” Relieved beyond words, all Morgan could do was weep, as she cupped his cheek and smiled.
Geretrudis and Anne loomed in the entry, as he eased to sit beside his wife, and the physic perched opposite Morgan.
“My lord, I believe I shall steal your pet name for me, because it applies to you, too.” When she yawned, he bowed his head. “And when I am recovered, I will have words with you about caring for yourself in my absence, as I will not have you risking your life, which is precious to me.”
“The fever appears to have broken, my lord.” The physic glanced at Geretrudis. “Prepare a light broth and some weak tea with peppermint.”
“Aye, sir.” The housekeeper clapped her hands, and Anne followed Geretrudis into the hall.
“My lord, I shall check Lady Hawisia’s progress, on the morrow.” The physic gathered his things. “See to it she remains in bed, even if you have to tie her to it.”
&nbs
p; “I just may do that.” Morgan peered at his bride, kissed her forehead, and fluffed her pillow. “You gave me quite a scare.”
“I am so sorry.” She furrowed her brow. “What of the family I helped?”
“The grandmother died, but the mother lived.” From a bowl, he drew a wet cloth and wiped Hawisia’s face. “I had the father and the children moved to another lodging, until we can make repairs to their home. And the family wishes to pay their respects, once you are well enough to receive callers, but I have half a mind to do as the physic recommends and chain you to our bed.”
“That is not necessary, as I know the situation was grave, but you know I had to assist them.” She twined her fingers in his. “Just as you are so intent on feeding them.”
“We are a fine pair, are we not?” There was so much Morgan wanted to tell his wife, yet he did not want to burden her, when she was so weak. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.” She gazed into his eyes. “I do love you. Now, tell me what troubles you.”
“You always know what to say, do you not?” And mayhap that was wherefore she was meant for him. “I was so afraid I would never get the chance to declare my love, especially as you repeatedly professed your undying devotion, while you languished from a fever.”
“I did?” She searched the haze that comprised her memory. “Are you certain you did not imagine it?”
“Oh, I am positive, as you also mentioned a few personal recollections that brought a blush and a smile to the physic’s face.” As the tension of her illness abated, he relaxed and resolved to dote on his wife, endlessly, for the remains of his days. “He may never look at the dais the same again.”
“I should apologize.” She bit her bottom lip.
“Nay, I do not think that will make the situation better.” Now he laughed. “And we should pick another meadow in which to make love, as I would take no chances.”
Morgan (Brethren Origins Book 4) Page 7