by Jackie Ivie
MORGANNA
Jackie Ivie
CHAPTER ONE
AD 1310
The screams faded by midday, leaving the groans of the dying. Morgan waited, even then.
She knew the ragtag group of young men that followed her were impatient, and she knew why. That didn’t make her give the signal. Not even when she watched other groups descend did she let her own lads go. There was no honor in stripping a dying man of his belongings. The vultures from other crofts could do so. Morgan wouldn’t go until death took over.
She tossed her black braid over her shoulder, hunched down farther behind the rocks and waited for the skelpies and poucahs of legend to take the souls and leave nothing she’d worry over. The banshees she could deal with later, after the fog covered everyone’s progress. Morgan swallowed her fear, looked at the others and gave the whistle.
Scots had no legal right to swords, belts, dirks, daggers known as skeans, or other embellishment, and a dead Scotsman had no need for either, although she drew the line at pulling the plaids from the bodies. She had to look away, as her lads had no such qualms. The bounty on the field in front of them would keep crofter homes warm and supplied with game, since few, if any, had done anything with a sword except sharpen it for its English owner.
The work was onerous, and several times her belly gave every signal of emptying itself of its contents, but Morgan plugged on, lifting a hand here, a waistband there, checking for rings, bracelets, amulets, knives – anything of value – before moving on.
The moon came out, shedding light through the wispy fingers of mist, and Morgan shivered in her kilt and tartan. She lifted the feile-breacan’s drape from where it slapped against the back of her ankles, to cover her head. That was dangerous and she knew it, for legs as hairless and shapely as hers couldn’t belong to a boy, no matter how much she worked them. It couldn’t be helped, though. Her ears were cold, and she didn’t want anyone to see what the last remnant of the clan of KilCreggar had been reduced to.
There was an immense body laying face down on what was once a clump of thistle weed. The warrior’s body had flattened the bush, and it was easy to see why. Morgan narrowed her eyes on legs close to tree trunks in size, narrow buttocks, and such wide shoulders, she forgot all about anything except benign feminine appreciation.
He had a wealth of light brown hair, messily strewn about his head. She couldn’t tell the length. She could barely tell the color of his sett. Her eyes sharpened in consideration. This had been a skirmish of battling clans, nothing more, nothing less. There weren’t but fifty-odd men dead on the field, and none was wearing as finely-worked a shirt, nor a kilt as richly made, as the man in front of her.
Morgan pushed at him with her boot, and getting no response, knelt to shove him over.
She didn’t have time to cry out as hands resembling iron bars seized her ankles and pulled, sending Morgan onto her rear in shock. Then the man was on all fours, straddling her and breathing like nothing dead could. Morgan hadn’t caught her breath yet, and knew her eyes were wide and frightened. She only hoped the tartan covered it.
“You robbing the dead, lad? You doona’ know the penalty?”
What moonlight there was highlighted a fine-shaped nose on a face handsome enough to make many a maiden swoon, and Morgan was no exception, for exactly four heartbeats. Then, she was kicking and shoving herself from him, in a lumbering backward crawl, to put as much field under her as she could before she dared swivel to her feet and run.
He was after her, of course, and there wasn’t any part of his body that looked wounded to her as he easily kept pace on hands and feet. Clods of sod and pebbles marked their progress away from the battlefield and closer to the rocks she’d hidden behind. Morgan was moving like one possessed to reach them, and he was right with her the entire way.
The tartan was what tripped her. Morgan’s foot stepped onto the frayed end, stopping her with a jolt of her neck. She went down again, bruising what parts of her that hadn’t been bruised the first time. He was atop her instantly, his weapon-hung belt digging into her belly, and thighs she’d known would be strong straddling her legs, immobilizing her. Morgan held him from her with arms that were hardened by work, but she knew she couldn’t keep his weight that way forever. He was too solid.
Her arms started trembling with the weight. Then, they began shaking. Finally the support collapsed, dropping him onto her folded arms without him expending a hint of effort.
“You know the penalty, and this is the best you can do?”
Now, she was going to die, and it wasn’t even a warrior’s death. Morgan closed her eyes and made herself ready to welcome it, since he was too heavy to allow her to breathe, anyway. Something about him changed, as his chuckling stopped. Morgan opened her eyes and met his, and the strangest thing happened. Almost as though she’d taken a swig of Mactarvat’s finest whiskey on the coldest of mornings. She was never certain, even afterward, what it was.
“This is a woman’s bane,” he said finally. “’Tis na’ fit for a youth such as yourself. Is this what we’ve been reduced to?”
Morgan thinned her lips. Her own father and four brothers had met their end on a battlefield just like this one. They hadn’t left one bit of security for Morgan, or her older sister by twenty-one years, Elspeth, the village hag. Robbing the dead wasn’t what she wanted to do, but it brought in needed funds for the crofters, and the lads needed someone to lead them. The village elders needed someone they trusted, someone the lads would follow, someone who wasn’t afraid of poucahs, skelpies or banshees. They needed someone they could make do it, someone without anyone to take care of, or to take care of her. The village elders needed someone like her to do the deed. They needed someone they could force. She glared at the man atop her.
“You’re straw-thin, too. Food scarce? Game? Is that why you rob the dead?”
“They’ve little use...for their riches,” she panted in what space he left her for breathing.
He laughed at that, a great barrel-kind of laugh, and even with her breasts bound, Morgan felt the reaction, like lightning spears to the crests of her breasts. Her binding wouldn’t keep that hidden, and she was grateful her own hands were smashed onto the offending parts. She spent every bit of energy stopping the reaction, and missed the beginning of his next words.
“...take a squire where I can find one. You know anything about horses?”
She shook her head, more due to incomprehension than an answer to his question, although it was the same one. She knew next to nothing of any animal like a horse. Poor crofters used their own legs.
“Well, you’re about to learn. Up. If I straddle a body, I want to make certain it’s a bonny lass with lush curves, not a lad made of bones.” He didn’t wait for an assent, he simply lifted from her, and before she could gulp in one lung-expanding breath, he had a hand looped through her belt and had her hauled to her feet.
The missing air was responsible for the way she weaved right next to him, and Morgan sucked in great gulps as he appraised her. She was more than a little pleased that she reached his cheekbone, and he wasn’t a short man. He probably stood over six feet, easily. She was just extremely tall for a lass. In fact, she was so tall, no one mistook her for a girl, ever. At least, they hadn’t since she turned ten, lost everyone in a gore-filled skirmish with the most hated clan on the earth, and consequently changed her gender.
Not even the waist-length black hair, worn in a single braid, branded her the correct sex, especially to short men. Morgan caught the giggle before it sounded. This man was making her his squire? It was unheard of, and completely amazing. Surely there were youths available to him from his
own clan?
“That’s KilCreggar sett,” he said, and there was a snide tone in his voice. “I’d recognize it anywhere, even if it’s worn wrong, and in tatters. You aren’t allowed to wear it. There isna’ a KilCreggar walking the earth. My clan saw to it.”
Morgan flushed, and her thoughts stopped. Her knees even sagged, because she knew exactly who he was, and why she should have fought like demons from Hell were on her heels. He was from the most hated clan on earth: the Sassenach-lovers, the rapists, the Highland clan named FitzHugh. He was a FitzHugh. The realization had the strangest effect on her as her insides swam with a jelly-like sensation she recognized as fear.
Then her back stiffened, and her legs resumed holding her upright. She knew every prayer she’d uttered from the age of ten was being answered. She, who’d as much chance of avenging her family’s demise as she had of flying, was being gifted with it. Nay, she was being forced to it. She was being drafted into service to a FitzHugh, and there was no one more despised.
Slivers of mist wrapped about their legs, making it look as though they rose legless from the fog. Morgan considered him, and told her blood to hush. She was no more female than the lads she led were. She’d killed off every bit of her that was female so many years ago, she rarely was even bothered by that most stupid of female ills, a monthly flux. Everything she’d killed off years ago was rising through her blood as she considered him, though. She had no doubt about what it was, either.
He was too handsome by far, with his sharp cheekbones, large lips, deep cleft chin, shoulder-length hair, and lushly lashed, dark eyes, of an indeterminate color. He was a healthy size, too…brawny and well-muscled.
He was also a FitzHugh. He might not look it, but he was bound to have weaknesses, and soft areas where a dirk could slip when he wasn’t watching. He was showing the famous FitzHugh stupidity, too. He was asking his enemy...nay, he was forcing the one person who had vowed to harm him, into the closest echelon of his life. It was too heady for her mind to absorb, and Morgan watched him fold his arms while he waited.
She swallowed, then she shrugged. “It was warm and serviceable,” she finally answered, lifting her chin to look him squarely in the eye.
“You probably took that from a body more than five, no six years ago. You should have replaced it since. There’s better on yonder field.”
It was eight years, and I’ll never replace it, you dolt, she thought. Her eyes narrowed. “I like the color,” she answered with absolutely no inflection to her voice. She was very proud of it.
“Gray and dingy black? There’s more color to the night sky. Come. I’ve FitzHugh sett in my tent.”
He didn’t see her reaction, and that was probably a good thing. He simply put an arm out and pushed her ahead of him back down the slope. He wasn’t giving her any chance to say yea or nay, and the two times she stumbled, he shoved her harder. Morgan caught herself clumsily, bit any response and kept pace.
The battlefield was covered with mist, blanketing everything with a ghostly whiteness that was unnerving. Morgan crossed herself hurriedly, and saw that he’d seen, although he didn’t say anything. She dipped her head and continued at his pace, jogging at his side.
If he recognized her stamina when they reached his horse, it didn’t show. Morgan looked over the animal, saw that it was taller at the neck and shoulders than she was, and regarded it with what she recognized as the beginnings of awe.
She hung back when the man clicked his tongue, spoke softly and the horse whinnied in response. “You were na’ here to fight,” she remarked.
He looked up at her as he tossed a saddle over the animal. “Nay,” was all he said.
“Then why did you?”
He ignored her, and lifted himself by the arms, above the horse, before swinging a leg over. Morgan watched him do it, watched the muscles in the backs of his arms, and then those in his legs, and swallowed the excess moisture in her mouth. She realized she hadn’t seen a man so fine in her life.
She was as annoyed with her body’s reaction as she was embarrassed by it. She wasn’t interested in female things. She hadn’t been in almost a decade. She was interested in besting everyone at sling-shot, archery and knife throwing. She was also competent at hunting, and usually had a daily offering for the hag’s pot. That was the only reason Elspeth tolerated her. Morgan hadn’t said but fifty words to her sister since the family’s demise. As far as she was concerned, Elspeth wasn’t a KilCreggar. She was a slut, welcoming any man between her thighs, before stealing whatever she could from them. Elspeth wasn’t a very likable sort, but she was definitely feminine. Morgan was the opposite: proud, terse and hardened. Even Elspeth called her a lad, although of all the villagers, she knew the truth. She’d ceased teasing Morgan over it, years earlier. It didn’t make them any closer, because there wasn’t any part of Morgan that she claimed as female. She wasn’t interested in a man.
She certainly wasn’t interested in this man because he was a handsome man, and a sturdy, brawny one. She was interested in him because he was the man who was her sworn enemy.
“Give me your hand.” He brought the horse over to her, and reached down.
“Why?”
“A good squire never questions his master.”
“I’ve na’ said I’ll be your squire,” Morgan answered.
“I’ve not asked, either. Your hand? Or would you prefer it hacked off as a penalty for robbing the dead?”
She gave him her hand. She had to use her own muscles to straddle his horse’s flank, since all the FitzHugh man did was lift her and fling her over his shoulder, and then command the animal to be on its way. Morgan didn’t know how he did it, either. She was keeping her attention on finding a hold to prevent herself from slipping off.
She had to settle with latching onto the saddle at the sides of his hips. Morgan had never been this close to a man in her life, and never with a live animal between her legs. She concentrated on keeping the material at her loins from rubbing her in any fashion. She did it by tensing her thigh muscles and raising herself above the animal’s flank. It wasn’t easy. She realized it as the night darkened further, stars came out to litter the sky, and her leg muscles started complaining.
She was grateful for her size, as her legs were almost the length of his, and it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been to be splayed wide over a horse’s backside.
“You might want to seek sleep while you can,” the man said.
“Sleep? Where?”
“Lean against my back. It works.”
“You’ll not stop?”
“I’ve enemies. Why would I want to give them another chance at me?”
“Another one?”
“Yonder battle ground was na’ a social call, and I did na’ leave it unscathed.”
“You’ve not a mark on you,” Morgan replied.
He chuckled. “So...you’ve been looking, have you?”
“Nay, only remarking that you move too fast for an injured man,” she replied.
“I took a bash to the noggin’. I’ve yet to clear my head. Traveling through the night is na’ it, though. Take my word.”
“Then, why are we?”
“Enemies abroad, lad. Everywhere.”
Morgan raised her brows at that, and eased herself down to the horse’s flank with as little ceremony as possible. Her thigh muscles were complaining with what felt like warm coals inside them, and she realized the futility of it. The roll of the horse would just have to be tolerated.
She stiffened, told herself to ignore the movement, and then she yawned. It wasn’t as difficult as she’d been thinking it would be. It was sort of nice actually, if one wasn’t bothered by the masculinity of the man in front of her.
She yawned again.
“Name’s Zander. Zander FitzHugh.”
“Zander?” she asked.
“As in Alexander. Alexander, the Great. Short version. My mother loves her history. She just has a problem spelling.”
&nb
sp; “Zander,” Morgan repeated. His name is Zander. She nearly giggled before she could prevent it.
“You got a name?”
“Aye,” she answered.
“What is it?”
“It is na’ Zander,” she replied with a hoot.
“You want me to make one up for you?”
“Go ahead,” she replied.
“Morgan.”
She started up in shock. “How did you—”
“Your name truly is Morgan?” he asked. “Fancy that. I’ve a vassal named the same as my horse. Morgan.”
“I’ve na’ said I’ll be your squire.”
“You will. You’ve na’ got a choice. I’ve got many servants of my own. I have so many it’s becoming something of a problem. There’s few that obey, few who pay attention. I’ve been told I need structure. I don’t know structure. My mum always tells me I need structure, though.”
“Structure?” She was more than a little mystified.
“I’ve a house to myself, more of an old building no one else wanted. I’ve household serfs to clean, spread rushes and light fires. I’ve bonny serfs to take to my bed. I’ve serfs to fetch and carry, serfs to make my food, and serfs to play me music. I’ve no serf to see to my horse and my person. Well, I had one. Yonder battlefield took him. You robbed from the dead, you take his place.”
“This is structure?”
“I probably need a wife. I doona’ want to be shackled to a wife. You know what that would do?”
“Nay,” Morgan replied.
“End my play. Wives are na’ tolerant of such.”
“Things like bonny serfs to warm your bed, you mean?”
“You’ve a bonny face, for a lad. They’ll take to yours, too. At least, I think they will. You ever have a woman?”
“Nay.” Morgan didn’t giggle, and she was absolutely amazed that she didn’t. “But, my name is na’ Zander, either.”
“Structure is the death to play. I don’t need structure.” He was starting to slur his words a bit. Morgan lifted an eyebrow. It wasn’t hard to find his weakness. He sounded like he had a household full of them. “Do you need structure, Morgan?”