Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “Take it,” he said, holding it out.

  “I canna’,” she replied.

  “I understand.” He placed the knife on the floor between them. “I canna’ touch you either. Things happen. ’Tis a curse. ’Tis also wondrous, if you ken my meaning.”

  She nodded slightly. “I ken,” she whispered.

  “I give you this with one condition, Morgan.”

  She looked across at him and waited. The dragon knife’s ruby was winking at her from the floor, drawing what light it could in order to tempt her to touch it, embrace it, caress it, and own it.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “You are to use it on me the very next time I canna’ control myself. You are not to miss. You miss, and I will kill you with my bare hands. You ken?”

  Morgan gasped. He smiled sadly at her. “Put your mind to rest, for I doona’ expect you ever to use it.”

  “You doona’?” she asked.

  “I dinna’ ask for this, Morgan, my love, but I will na’ give you up. I canna’! I will wed my black-haired lass, and I will slake my lust on her. That should give me enough control of whatever we have between us that I can be with you. I will give her my lust, but I will never give her my love. I canna’. It belongs to you.”

  Morgan closed her eyes. She couldn’t take the sight of Zander FitzHugh baring his heart for another blood-spilling moment.

  “Such a love is not sanctioned by God. I canna’ change that. Neither can you. That is where the dragon blade comes in. I will na’ give up my hope of heaven. Nor yours.”

  Her innards twisted and she opened her mouth to tell him. She no longer cared about anything like revenge, or honor, or the little black-haired lass he was going to give himself to. She only wanted the torment over with. The door flying open was what stopped her. Morgan had the blade tucked into her belt, behind the kilt band, in almost the same motion she used to rise, and she stood beside Zander to glare across at Plato and Martin.

  “He moves!” Martin expelled, with a whoosh of air, probably brought about by the shock.

  “I was fairly certain he would be, by now. What have you two been up to, anyway?” Plato looked from Zander to Morgan and back, and he had a frown etched into place when he finished.

  “Nothing of interest,” Zander replied.

  “The earl requests the duel to start immediately. He has tripe scheduled for sup. He wishes the blood-letting over with by then, and expects a swift end. Come along. We were sent to fetch you.”

  “Have the conditions been met?” Zander asked.

  Plato looked right at her. “Aye,” he answered.

  “Good. Go along now. We’ll be at your heels. At least I will be. I’ve got some words of encouragement for my champion.”

  The door shut behind them. Zander waited, without saying a word. He didn’t have to. Morgan knew what he was saying.

  It was time. They both knew it.

  She turned her head and nodded, at the same moment that he did at her. She’d never seen anything so beautiful in her life as the look in those midnight-blue eyes. She hoped she would recall it when she was given her death-blow. She’d like it to be her last recollection of this life.

  He strode to the door, opened it and went out first. “Come along then, Squire. We’ve a Sassenach to best, and tripe to eat. Damn the man and his taste for that delicacy. I prefer haggis.”

  He was still bemoaning the earl’s menu as he led her through the corridors and down one flight of steps after another, Morgan keeping pace with only a slight limp. Then, they were out on a parade ground, surrounded by gray, stone walls, and filled with humanity. Morgan kept her eyes on the light-blue, satin-jacketed man she was supposed to fence against. He was wearing a strange looking outfit, completely showing his legs, and leaving not a muscle hidden beneath the dark blue-colored tights he had on.

  He was also standing in front of a platform that held a petite, black-haired lass with a heart-shaped face and a bow mouth. She recognized Morgan, and her face broke into a smile. Morgan didn’t return it. She couldn’t. She turned away.

  “You can still halt this,” Zander said at her shoulder.

  “You already know it’s too late. Doona’ speak of it again.”

  Her words sounded strange and slurred and Zander narrowed his eye at her. That’s what came from a bitten tongue, swelled with the cuts. Morgan’s lips twitched at the thought. She sounded more like she’d been drinking.

  “As the challenger, you have first pick of blades, My Lord FitzHugh!”

  “Go on, Morgan. Find the balanced one.”

  Morgan stepped to the velvet-lined case, holding two swords. Both were made by a master smithy. That much was apparent instantly. They were also used often, if the wear along the inner part of one’s hilt was any indication. They had also been sharpened recently. Morgan picked up the heavily-used one, and tested it.

  It had perfect balance. Smooth. Easily moved. Light. She made a few motions with it, and watched the English champion’s reaction to it. He was a conceited prig, but his worry wasn’t hidden well enough. She put that sword back in and picked up the second. The difference was slight, and only one attuned to blades, like she was, could have noted it. The arc was not nearly as perfect, nor did the weight move as smoothly. In fact, the blade seemed to be a hairs-breadth of time behind the slicing motion she made with it. Morgan smiled.

  “I will take this one,” she said.

  ~ ~ ~

  As duels go, it was a stunning sight, lasting past the perfect serving temperature for the earl’s tripe supper, and well into the night. Torches were brought and lit to make it more easily observed and enjoyed. Morgan had told Zander what she liked least about fencing was all the dancing around, and here she was faced with a master of it.

  She just wished he was good enough, that she could put her neck in his path without it looking that way. He wasn’t. He was good, though, and she spent what seemed hours trying to get him to take his shot. Time after time their blades clanged against the other; sometimes he was gaining ground, backing Morgan into a corner from whence it looked she’d falter for certain, and then she’d be sending his next lunged blow to the ground, where his blade kicked up grass and straw while she leaped to the side to torment him from another vantage. Other times, Morgan clearly had him, although all she’d do when she had him cornered, was more fancy dancing with the blade while he recuperated enough to attack again.

  Sweat poured off both of them, and it trickled from beneath his wig, until he took the stupid thing off, and then it gleamed off his shaved head. Morgan, on the other hand, hadn’t thought to re-braid her hair, and it was flying about her from the opening parry, to every move after that.

  She was constantly having to toss it out of her way, and more than once had her attention caught for a moment by Zander’s frown over it. He’d warned her what would happen if her hair got in the way during a battle.

  The English champion wasn’t good enough to take her, and she wasn’t humiliated enough to let him. She finally accepted the inevitable. No Scotsman would allow themselves to be taken by such a pitiful specimen.

  She started attacking with a vengeance, serving him blow after blow, until one flick of her blade had his sword flying through the air, and right into her left hand. Morgan stalked him with both, then, slipping a button here, and a stitch there, until his waistcoat popped open. Then, he was on his knees begging her. Morgan raised both swords above her head.

  “Morgan, nay! The bargain was changed! Morgan!”

  It was Zander yelling with that orator voice of his. She ignored him and flung both swords through the material making up the open flaps of this English braggart’s doublet, the force of the blows and her accuracy, putting him on his back in a knee-cracking arch, and pinning him to the turf, where the hilts swayed on either side of his frightened torso. The crowd was making noise, but it had been throughout the fight. She hadn’t heard it then, and she didn’t hear it now.

  Morgan lifted her head to
the heavens and yelled her frustration, hatred, and pain, as loudly as she could. And it wasn’t directed at anyone except herself.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Name your sum, friend FitzHugh! I will pay it. The lad is worth anything. I offer half my horses and all my land for the lad.”

  The earl hiccoughed halfway through his offer. Morgan drained her flagon of ale and set it on the table beside her. She giggled as it fell off, right into Zander’s lap below her. She watched him immediately put his hands on his manhood to protect it. That was even more funny, she decided.

  “I thought you offered all your horses and half your land.” Plato guffawed from further down the table as he said it.

  “Slight difference, FitzHugh, only slight. Verra well. I will give all my horses, all my land, and my wife, too.”

  “Cease threatening me with your wife!” Zander complained, sitting up long enough to groan, before falling back to the floor.

  Morgan thought it was as hilarious as trying to get her tongue to work, right after the cuts were numbed by mead, and caressed by creamed beef. She laughed so hard, the tears slid from her eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, before motioning the serving wench to refill her tankard.

  “I will give everything for a lad with his talent. Where is that FitzHugh? He has yet to bargain. I will give him my in-laws, too.”

  Phineas was looking everyone over with a cold, light-blue gaze. Drink wasn’t improving his temperament, Morgan noticed, and she wrinkled her nose at him. She decided it would have felt better to stick her tongue out at him, then she just did it, although the moment it was out of her mouth, she had to tuck it back in with her fingers. That was even funnier than having it large and plump-feeling, and it was in the way no matter what she tried to eat or drink.

  “Is he still here?” The earl was eyeing the vacant spot next to Morgan. She thought that was just as hilarious, especially since his wig was awry and hanging from one ear.

  “I’m here.” Zander was attempting to get himself off the floor and looking like it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He made it to his stool where he teetered for a moment and fell back down. “And the lad is not for sale. Ever. Cease this topic.”

  “But he handles a blade better than anyone!”

  “You should see him with a bow...as long as the arrows are included!” Zander choked on the laughter and Morgan put her foot on his belly to make him pay. She shouldn’t have. The next moment she was flat on her back, and Zander was atop her, pinning her easily. He had a lobe of her ear in his teeth, too and was nibbling.

  Morgan literally cooed at the sensation.

  “Now stop that, young Zander. That’s na’ a woman! If ’tis a woman you’re wanting, take my Sally Bess to your chamber. She’s lass enough for you.” The earl offered it amid a spate of belching.

  “I’ll not take a lass, unless you give one to my champion! ’Tis he that deserves one. What say you, Morgan? You ready for your first tumble?”

  Morgan shoved at him, but he wasn’t moving, and she was too dizzy to get out from under him without his cooperation. She started doing push-ups with him, and after about thirty, he started getting the idea. Then, he had his hands on her shoulders and was doing his own push-ups.

  Their eyes locked. This is terrible, Morgan thought. Then she giggled. It wasn’t remotely terrible.

  “If we can do two-hundred separately, we should be able to do four hundred this way, no?”

  “’Tisn’t fair. You’re heavier than me.” she complained.

  “So...I actually do best you at push-ups?” He was grinning and lowering his mouth toward hers and Morgan barely missed the contact as he collapsed onto her.

  “Get him off me!” She complained, trying to roll away.

  “My brother’s tastes appear to be wider than I thought,” Phineas remarked, lifting Zander by the belt long enough for Morgan to crawl out from beneath him.

  She would have thanked him, then she saw who it was. She slapped his helping hand away and stood on her own, although everything was bobbing and weaving about once she got to her feet.

  “Sally Bess! Take the young champion to a chamber. Make a man of him!”

  A huge woman came striding over, taking up her entire view, and Morgan’s eyes widened. She turned to run, but wasn’t a wobbly step into it before she was pulled atop this woman’s shoulder and carried away like a prize of war.

  She thought that was the most hilarious thing that could happen.

  ~ ~ ~

  Morgan opened her eyes as slowly as possible and still the light was screaming into her head, making her retch with the throb. She was on her belly and heaving before another moment passed. Then, she was held in a motherly embrace against a wealth of bosom.

  “You poor, wee lass. Have you no idea what the mead does to you?”

  Lass? Morgan wondered, falling back into the softness of the bed and holding to both sides of her head to keep it from exploding.

  “Where...am I?” she whispered, wondering why her teeth didn’t just fly out of her mouth and save her the trouble of checking for them.

  “In my bed. Sally Bess at your side. World’s champion bedder. Pleased to meet with you, I am, Morgan. Or…is it Morganna?”

  “Oh God.” Morgan was on her belly, retching again, and the woman was there, holding her over a pot, the entire time.

  “There, lass, it’s all right. I would na’ tell a body your secret. I think it’s rather a grand thing, actually. A woman...besting that Lord Cantor’s swordsman! And doing it in such a grand fashion, too. As I live and breathe, makes me proud just to be one. It does.”

  “Where…are my clothes?” Morgan asked.

  “The FitzHugh is having another sett delivered. I told him to make it sturdier than the last, since it tore.”

  “It...tore?”

  “Oh, my yes. As did my blouse. You’re an impatient devil when you want to be.”

  “Where...are my clothes?” Morgan tried again, clenching her teeth. It wasn’t for emphasis, although it sounded it, but to keep them from chattering on each other and making more trauma for her.

  “Well, let me see now. Most of them are scattered about the hall, although I left a bit of your under-tunic on the steps. It was all ragged and only half a garment, anyhow. And you had the strangest bit of gray plaid stuck to your chest.”

  Morgan came off the bed and was shoved right back down by Sally Bess. “Doona’ fash yourself. It’s safe. I figured you needed it. As a charm, or some-such. It’s right here.”

  Morgan tipped an eye to the fraying square of KilCreggar plaid the woman was holding. She watched her own had tremble s she reached for it, and wished she could blame it all on the mead. She’d almost lost it! She didn’t care that Sally Bess was watching as she brought it to her lips.

  “I knew it was a talisman! I knew it!” The woman’s glee carried too much thumping with it. Morgan put both hands to her temples to stay it.

  “Forgive me, lass. It’s the excitement.”

  “What excitement?”

  “Why…knowing what I do of the FitzHugh champion, and having said champion in my very own bed, and best yet, having everyone else know of it!”

  “Where…did you say my clothing was, again?” Morgan was choking, and it wasn’t on any bile.

  “Well. Your boots are in the hall. There’s a sock on the stairs. Your belt’s at the door, along with your knives, and I’m wearing this.”

  “In...the hall? The stairs?”

  “You had a very wild night, you did.”

  “I...did?” Morgan whispered the question.

  “Oh, my yes. And quite an animal you are. Had me shaking and shivering and screaming until dawn arrived. You should have heard the noises I made.”

  Morgan opened her eyes again. The light was just as hellish, the woman just as broad, but the amusement on her face was a thing of beauty. Morgan’s grin was wide enough to split her cheeks.

  “You’ve got the whole day off to rest, to
o. I’ve told them you’ll need it. You’re young, but I managed to wear you out. You’re completely exhausted and sleeping with the broadest smile on your face. The last is no lie, by-the-by. You were. The greatest smile. Of course I let that Zander fellow see it, too.”

  “He...what?” Morgan tried to put all her aggravation into it, but the combination of her aching head and her enlarged tongue made it sound like a small child talking.

  “He had to make certain where you were, and that you weren’t harmed. I showed him you were na’ coming to any harm in Sally Bess’s bed, and I was properly angered, too, at him thinking you might be.”

  “He was in here?”

  “Aye. First thing this morn. Probably when he sobered up enough to notice you was missing. That’s a fine man you’ve got for your master. You should na’ have let him betroth the lass, Gwynneth, though. She’s na’ woman enough for him. You are.”

  Morgan’s entire body was blushing beneath the sheets. “What did he see?”

  “Who?”

  “My master, Zander FitzHugh,” she replied.

  “Oh. Well. I had it so you’d look a bit...you know.”

  “Sally Bess,” Morgan began, using a threatening tone good enough to attribute to Zander.

  “Oh, very well. I had you on your front, hair all about, and you’ve shoulders more befitting a lad than a lass, anyway. You had one foot off this side of the bed, and another down the end. Then, I made certain I was na’ wearing much. In fact,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I had nothing save your kilt wrapped about me.”

  Morgan started laughing and had to halt it as her teeth complained about the effort. Then, her head joined in. She clenched her mouth shut and held to her head at the same time to get the ache in the same rhythm.

  “It was perfect! You were even snoring!”

  “I do na’ snore! Ouch!” Morgan held her head tighter.