by Jackie Ivie
“Give yonder squire, Martin, a ride first. He’s na’ angered my master as I have.”
“How did you do that?”
Morgan would have lifted her shoulders and shrugged, but that would only accomplish more pain to each step. “He dinna’ like my methods of tossing my dirks. I tried to show him, and he detested it.”
“Zander is a world unto himself. You are the strangest of creatures, Morgan, do you know that?”
“I am nothing,” she replied.
“I would na’ say that. I think you’re either a very pretty lad, or a very pretty lass. The fact that you look either is confusing and unsettling. What do you look like in a dress?”
Morgan tried ignoring him for a span, but he didn’t do anything except keep his horse in pace with her and wait. “I’ve never worn such, my lord. I hardly know what I look like now. How would I know what I’d look like in woman’s clothing? Besides, where would I hide my dirks?”
“I’m beginning to think I was correct the first time. You are a lass. I think my brother is blind, after all.”
“No law against thinking, is there?” she replied.
“Zander is very anxious to get his future decided. He says he longs for his house. I don’t know why. The place is a disaster. Not one of his servants obey. It’s not comfortable.”
“I’ve been told,” she replied.
“Why did you pledge yourself to him?”
“I have na’ pledged anything to anyone. I’m bound by debt to him. He threatened to strip my clothing off me if I didn’t take it off, then when I did, he tossed it into the burn. I had no choice but to wear FitzHugh sett. I owe him for that.”
“He’s making you pay for your clothing, after a trick like that? I’ll speak to him.”
“You’re na’ to do any such thing.”
“Well, someone has to. The woman he just betrothed himself to isna’ going to. She’s the biggest mouse I’ve ever met.”
Morgan stumbled and fell, taking the jolt once again with her knees. The agony wasn’t as easy to stanch this time. She sat, ramrod straight, with her hands on her thighs and gasped with it. Not one of the horses seemed to have turned about or stopped.
Then, she noticed the horse at her side, and the man at her elbow. “You tripped. Here. I’ll help you.”
“Get your hands off me!” she hissed.
“I know, you’ll probably stick a dozen knives into my gizzard if I don’t. Fair enough. Flay me. I’ve finished with this farce, anyway. You’re riding with me. Here. Ugh. You weigh more than you look.”
He had her in his arms and then settled into the front of his saddle and Morgan wasn’t capable of saying anything to stop him. Her mouth was clenched tight with stopping the scream from his rough handling. Then, he was in the saddle behind her, pulling her against his chest and murmuring words that brought tears to her eyes again.
“Zander is a fool,” he said. “A fool who went and got himself betrothed not two days ago, regardless of whom he hurt or whom he stepped on. I don’t know why. Used to be he would have died before accepting a wife. No matter now. I can’t change it. You probably can’t, either. If you lean that direction, think it through. He’s lost to you. I’m not. I’m available, still. My name is Plato. Plato FitzHugh. At your service, Morgan lass.”
She laughed and caught the agony before it made much sound. Another FitzHugh with a ridiculous name. Their mother must be a sow to force the issue, and their sire a rabbit. Plato. She was still smiling over it when Zander turned his head to check on her.
The smile died and then turned to consternation as he motioned for a halt and then rode back to where Morgan was ensconced in Plato’s arms. She watched the brothers look each other over.
“You’ve got my squire there, Plato. I’ll not take kindly to this treatment of my serfs.”
“Allow me to pay off his debt. How much cloth did he get? At what price?”
“How much?” Zander exploded. “Get down off that horse, Morgan, and keep your claws from my brothers. I command it.”
“I’ll buy his freedom, Zander. Only quote the price and I’ll send it over. I’ll even send my serf, Roberta, over to sweeten the deal.”
Zander looked at Morgan, and his midnight-blue eyes were as cold and hard as Phineas’ were. “No amount of silver is going to set him free. Ever. I guarantee it. Now get down off that horse, Morgan. Now.”
She pulled away from Plato, and was shaking as she swiveled her entire body to make the lunge for the ground easier to take. Plato helped her, though, putting his hands on her upper arms and lowering her. When he did, he brushed the sides of her breasts. Morgan sucked in the intake of breath, while Plato’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t give indication that he’d felt it, at all. He was glaring straight at his brother.
“You treat Morgan harshly, and you’ll deal with me.”
“What?” Zander looked from his brother, down at where Morgan attempted to remain standing, although she had both hands about his brother’s saddle horn in order to do so, and then back to Plato. If there was any gentleness to him, it was impossible to spot.
“Walk beside me, Morgan. I’ll not come to blows over a piece of spittle such as yourself. Plato? Keep your tongue and your influence from my household.”
Morgan held to the horse, Morgan’s, mane, and nearly screamed with every step forced on her as he loped back to the front of Zander’s column. She was dying, and wished God would just take her and put her out of her misery. It would be more merciful of Him. Morganna KilCreggar deserved a small bit of mercy, didn’t she? She deserved the blessed unconsciousness of the dead, the silent sleep of eternity. That was what she deserved. She surely didn’t deserve another moment of this.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Zander called a halt near midafternoon. Morgan’s existence resembled Hell, to the point she wouldn’t have known if it was midafternoon, midnight or midsummer. All she knew was the horse stopped and two steps later, so did she.
Since it was impossible to turn her head, she swiveled slowly and looked back at the group behind her. All the servants Zander had been intent on gathering were now riding with his clansmen. All, except Morgan. She turned back, to face forward. How perfectly Zander FitzHugh carried out his creed, and he didn’t even know it was a KilCreggar he was torturing. Morgan’s back stiffened. He never would know it, either.
“You’ll call a rest, finally? Your servant looks like he’s taken a touch of the whip.”
The man speaking was probably Plato, although she didn’t know their voices all that well, but she doubted the brother named Phineas would care.
‘‘Morgan lad? Surely you’re mistaken. There’s not a more prideful, stubborn lad born. He’s simply hungry. We’ll all partake. Sheila and Amelia! Gather foodstuffs!”
He was using his orator’s voice, and Morgan stepped away from the horse so Zander could heave himself off and see to everything. She wasn’t capable of moving fast or well. She turned slowly to watch as men, lads and lasses headed for the bushes on either side of the dirt path.
“You dinna’ need to relieve yourself, Morgan?” Zander asked at her ear.
She gasped inwardly, although nothing showed, and held onto the stab of pain the movement caused by keeping her teeth clamped shut.
“I’ve no need,” she answered, finally.
“Well, I’ve not your vanity, nor your shyness. I very much need to see to emptying myself. I’ll not be long. You move from this spot, and I’ll have your braid,” he answered. “You ken?”
“I ken,” she replied.
It was starting to rain, although only bits and spurts of moisture touched her nose, cheeks and hands, but it felt good. Morgan closed her eyes, settled her head back the tiniest bit, in order to lick a drop from the skin above her upper lip.
“Doona’ do that again.”
She was already stiff, but Zander’s quiet command made every part that wasn’t locked in place, tighten. Morgan lowered her chin slowly and looked ac
ross at him. She didn’t say a word.
He nodded and left her then, and she breathed normally the moment he did so. What is the matter with me? she lamented to herself, but there wasn’t an answer. There never was.
She heard the sounds of a feast, smelled a bit of bread and pig, even caught the odor of mustard seed. She kept her eyes on Morgan, the horse, and forced her belly to calm. She couldn’t eat, because if she did, she’d have to take nature’s call, and if she did that, she didn’t know if she could get to her feet again. She swayed slightly and reached out for Morgan’s mane.
“You don’t eat, Morgan?”
She looked at her hand on the horse, touched the rough hairs of his mane, and told her heart to hush. “Nay,” she answered.
“Why not?”
She didn’t have to look to see it, she knew how he’d be standing, resting one hand on his hip, with a hank of bread or meat in the other. She only wished the pain of her body over-rode that in her breast. “I doona’ have to answer to you,” she said, finally.
There was silence a moment as he probably swallowed his bite. “You don’t rest, either.”
“That is na’ true. I am resting.”
“Come then, sit.”
“I do not wish to sit.”
He didn’t say anything, nor was there any sound of eating. Morgan examined the horse’s mane in her hands.
“You sicken, and I’ll flog you,” he warned.
“I’ll not sicken.”
“I’ll fetch you a carrot, and a bit of boar meat. ‘Tis only fitting, since you brought it down.”
“A master does na’ serve his squire, I think,” she replied.
“If I could perhaps interrupt?”
“Go away, Plato,” Zander growled.
“Methinks it’s you that should disappear, Zander. Yon lad’s face is etched with pain, and he is na’ sitting for a reason. Probably the same reason he is na’ eating.”
“He’s na’ doing either, because he wants me to look bad before my brothers. I already know how my squire thinks.”
Morgan, the horse, had small braided portions to his mane. Morgan, the squire, found one of them, ran it through her fingers, then found another one. Zander had been braiding pieces of hair while they journeyed? That was interesting, she told herself.
“Canna’ you see? Your squire’s incapable, at present.”
“Incapable? This lad has more capability in his foot than any other man. I’ve seen it. And, he will na’ take a rest. I asked, and he refused.”
“Did you ask him up onto your horse?”
“Doona’ overstep, Plato,” Zander said.
“He asked me,” Morgan spoke up. “I refused.”
“And he also offered food and rest?”
“Aye.”
“You lie well, Squire Morgan. Face me when you do it.”
Face him? It was all she could do to remain standing. Morgan took a deep breath and swiveled with her entire body, carefully blanking out the sharp stab of pain that arced between her shoulders.
“You see, Zander, it’s written all over the lad. He’s a back injury, in agony, terrified of having to stand again, and you’ve marched him all night and most of the day. At least give the order to encamp here. We can reach Argylle tomorrow, dawn.”
If Plato was hoping for gratitude from Morgan, he was sadly mistaken. She glared at him. A FitzHugh pitying a KilCreggar? And worse, asking for leniency? All her life was spent for a moment such as this, and she lifted her chin, ignoring the minute gasp she couldn’t prevent. “I was na’ resting because I dinna’ need it. I doona’ wish to eat, because I’m replete, and my injury is just that, FitzHugh, my injury. Doona’ trouble yourself over me and I’ll na’ stick a dirk in you when you least expect it.”
Zander chuckled. “Well, I did try to warn you, Plato. He wishes me to look bad before my brothers. Nothing more.”
Plato looked unconvinced, but he left them. Morgan took another slight breath, before she could pivot back. Zander was still there. She heard him take a bite of his carrot. She watched the splash of a drop on her hand, then another. She hoped it wouldn’t rain in earnest. The mud might be more than she could walk through.
“The Earl of Argylle has an English lord staying with him,” he said.
“So?” she replied.
He took another bite of his carrot, noisily chewed it, and just as loudly swallowed. “This English lord has a champion. A fencing master. An English fencing master.”
Morgan watched more raindrops fall onto her hands, then felt them on her head, thumping with the weight of water each carried. She sighed. God was as merciless as a FitzHugh, obviously. “So?” she finally replied again.
“We’ll speak more of this when we get to the castle. Have you ever seen a real castle, Morgan?”
“Nay,” she whispered.
“I receive rooms in the keep. My squire stays at my side.”
She probably should have joined them in the bushes, Morgan realized, as the sickness fell to the pit of her belly. He was already punishing her for his own lack of control. She hardly dared be put in that position again. She wasn’t strong enough to withstand him, and it wasn’t to withstand his punishment.
It was to withstand the paradise he’d given her a glimpse of.
“Squire Martin will enjoy that,” she answered.
“Squire Morgan will, too.”
“Squire...Morgan?”
“Phineas wishes you for his squire. Would you like that?”
She sucked in breath, tinged with rain. It felt cool in her mouth and down her throat. It felt good. “Phineas?” she asked. Phineas, she asked again to herself. Too?
“Phineas. I’ve told him the same as I told Plato before him. There is no amount of silver that will release you from me. Besides, Phineas abuses his servants.”
Morgan almost laughed. “Abuses?” she asked.
“He uses the whip. Branding irons. I’ve heard. I’ve seen his handiwork. I’ll na’ stay at the castle, his home.”
“Branding irons?” Morgan repeated.
“Aye. And chains. He also claims more bastards than there are days to the week. All delivered to him by the women he takes. I don’t believe they enjoy it.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“I don’t know. Because I could always talk to you, maybe.”
Rain was slicking Morgan, the horse’s, hide and darkening it to a brown shade that resembled Zander’s hair, for some reason. Morgan, the squire, looked at it and then turned to face him, ignoring every ache at the movement. She could swear they were getting easier to bear, too. In comparison to her failure, anything would be, she thought. She knew what failure felt like, now. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. She, who had always tasted success, was now a failure. She’d been broken. A KilCreggar had been broken by a FitzHugh! She realized she was, too. She was broken in everything that mattered; her spirit, her body...her heart. How her ancestors must be writhing with disgust.
She sighed. “You doona’ wish to talk to me, Zander FitzHugh. You wish to punish me. You know why. I know why. No one else does, nor will they ever. Very well. I accept your punishment. Now go, and find someone else to converse with. I’ve tired of it.”
His face was as shuttered as her own felt like. He was still a very handsome man, with rain molding everything he wore to him. He lowered his jaw and blazed every bit of his midnight-blue scorn onto her.
“I wish to warn you of what your lot could be should I take Phineas up on his offer.”
“Is that supposed to be worse?” she asked.
He pulled back. “I dinna’ mean to harm you,” he whispered. “I doona’ know my own strength sometimes.”
Oh God, that was worse! she thought. She sucked in on the newest agony, and realized that it hurt more than anything her back had been giving her. She didn’t want a FitzHugh’s pity! Especially this FitzHugh!
Morgan slitted her eyes and regarded him. She’d rather have his hatred. It ma
tched her own, if she found it again. She sneered a bit at him. “You forget yourself, FitzHugh,” she said coldly.
“Forget?”
“There are others all about you.”
“True. We’ve surrounded by others. What of it?”
“If you tarry much longer at my side, they may suspicion why, you know,” she whispered.
His face turned to a stone-like mask, and she watched it happen. It felt like every piece of her was crying, but the rain covered any such motion, and her eyes remained dry and hard.
“Our rest is over. We make Castle Argylle by dark.”
Morgan blinked her acknowledgment and turned back forward as the word was given. She decided, after another thousand steps, that the ache in her back, sending shooting pains down each leg was the easier to bear.
~ ~ ~
Zander had been right. Morgan had never seen a castle. She hadn’t much will to look at this one as they walked up a hill toward it. All she could tell was it was immense, and torches from the walls shed light all around the surrounding acreage. The column halted, and then she was walking across wood, listening to the echo of horses’ hooves and her own boots.
Since she wasn’t capable of turning her head, she took it all in with unblinking eyes from a position beside Zander’s leg. They had more torches sputtering and spewing light at every curve of the steps, and Zander walked his horse right into a building and up a flight of steps. Morgan tripped only once, and when she did, the immediate pressure of Zander’s hand was on hers, holding her up, and keeping her up until she steadied.
Then, he let her go. Morgan didn’t say a word.
The wide flight of steps ended in another courtyard, and then they were at the stables. Morgan took in the vast amount of horseflesh all about her. The Lord of Argylle appeared to maintain his own legion of servants just to care for the horses. The noise and confusion was evident, as Zander’s group came to a halt in the middle of the yard.
Morgan stepped back on legs which seemed to be kneeless, in a jerking fashion, as Zander dismounted. Her legs were still holding her up, although they weren’t working properly. He glanced down at her, then away. He had a nerve twitching in that chiseled jaw. He had also freshly scraped his beard. She knew, because she’d heard the sounds of him doing it as they approached.