Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “All of the clans are here? Truly?” Zander asked.

  Plato snorted. ‘‘Mother should have given me the beauty, and you the wits! I’ve never seen so many clansmen. I dinna’ know we had so many, that’s how it looks. And they are na ’here to witness my wedding. Morgan! Get up! Get dressed!”

  “I will na’ allow my lady to dress with you watching, Plato.”

  Plato tossed the ceremonial kilt and tartan onto the bed and swiveled around. “Whatever it takes, do it! Do it now! There are clansmen on my heels, and that bolt is not going to hold, and she has to be Squire Morgan a-fore then!”

  “Quickly, Morgan. Up. I’ll help. The clans are here. I doona’ dare believe it,” Zander voice held the reverence. “All I’ve been trying to accomplish for years, you have done in less than a fortnight. Up, love!”

  “Wait until you see them, too! ’Tis quite a sight. Why, when The Bruce saw the extent of Morgan’s drawing power, he was out there speaking. He has been all morn. He has been promising the great champion, Squire Morgan, to them. The FitzHugh clan has been sent to do his bidding.”

  Morgan was shrinking into the midst of the bed, and felt smaller and smaller. This was nothing like what she wanted.

  “I will be at your side, my love. Doona’ doubt it.” Zander spoke softly, but she heard it. She met his eyes.

  There was a thunderous blow on the door. Their eyes widened for a momentous flicker of time, and then she was flying into her under-tunic, shirt, socks. Zander was wrapping the feile-breacan about her, and tossing it over her shoulder and slapping the belt on her hips. He handed her the dragon blade last.

  “I have na’ donned the loin-wrap,” she whispered.

  His eyebrows went up and down several times. “And here I thought you dinna’ wish my interest.”

  “Will you two cease that and get ready?”

  “He is ready, Plato. Can you braid hair?”

  Plato swiveled back around, his eyes showing the amazement. “She must be part lad. No female dresses so quickly. And nay, I have nae experience with a braid. My regrets, lad.”

  “I doona’ need help. I have done it myself for years. Where are my dirks? My brooch?”

  Plato put the bag on the table, and the clink told her it contained all she needed. Morgan slid the dragon blade into the front of her belt, against her stomach, and then started putting dirks in her socks and the back of her belt, slipped her silver wrists bands on and pinned her brooch.

  Another blow came to the door, and Plato stood behind it. “To spare Argylle from replacing another bolt to your chamber, I will spring this. Are you prepared?”

  Morgan’s wide eyes met Zander’s again. She was threading hair through her fingers as quickly as she could and Zander was just finishing the hooking of his dragon brooch. Time stood still, and then he smiled.

  Plato opened the door.

  Zander had to carry her. There were too many about the hall, and too many wishing to touch her. When they reached the battlements, Morgan would have fallen, if Zander hadn’t hoisted her on his shoulder, turning her to face what appeared to be a virtual sea of men in tartans, all yelling, all calling, all cheering.

  She was shaking before they reached the fields.

  ~ ~ ~

  There followed the strangest day in Morgan’s life. She met up with King Robert at the portcullis above the drawbridge. Then, she and Zander were put on horseback, and she was trotted out. The Bruce told her that these weren’t all the clans, after all. These were the lowland ones, the ones that were the hardest for him to sway.

  Morgan listened and tried to make sense of it. The Highlanders were far north, well away from English influence and used to any hardship. Anything forced upon them by the Sassenach was tossed off until the punishment, and it was usually harsher, too. They lived to fight, and if it weren’t a rival clan, it was the English. King Robert preferred that it be the English. Zander fit that mold, she decided.

  The lowlanders were harder for Robert to convince. They were like Argylle. They shared the border with England, had wed into English families, used English ways, and since they were closer to English punishments, their obedience was usually swifter. The man who had been crowned king of a country that wasn’t even independent, needed the lowlanders if he was to succeed. He needed what was happening, and that meant he needed Morgan.

  Zander beamed at her side all through this impassioned speech, and then they reached the first clan. Morgan sat her horse, watched all the faces and shook with the fear. Then, some loud-mouthed braggart lifted a walking stick in the air, and challenged her to show why anyone would walk leagues to see a pretty-faced, thin lad in FitzHugh plaid. Before anyone could turn to watch, Morgan had twelve dirks in a row on his stick, and the dragon blade ready for a final toss.

  In the shocked quiet immediately following her tosses, Robert the Bruce started talking. He stood up in his stirrups and began addressing all in hearing. He had the same type of great oratorical voice that Zander possessed. It made shivers flow over Morgan’s shoulders and down both arms, and that happened no matter how many times she heard the speech he gave.

  Morgan and Zander were accompanied by FitzHugh clansmen, and they had the chore of retrieving her dirks and getting them back to her. It became an all-day chore, for at each clan the king raised his hand to address a clan, she was given the nod to show off first.

  It began to be a competition to see which of the clans could make her miss. Morgan’s lips twitched as she watched the young lads take off running the moment she’d finished, and The Bruce launched into his speech. The lads were spreading the word, and the targets became smaller and smaller and farther and farther away. One fellow even held up a tankard, open-end facing her, and challenged her to put her dirks in it.

  The amusing part was they wouldn’t stay, and as each clanged in, it immediately dropped back out, making a warble like a songbird’s. The king had to wait for the cheering to die out that time, before he could launch into his speech. Morgan wasn’t really listening, though. She was looking into all the eyes that gazed up at her and her shivers weren’t from any speech; they were from some intangible quality of the crowd.

  Zander was at her side all day. He was the one handing her the dirks each time. Later, it was a crust of bread, a joint of roast beef from one clan, a dram of whiskey from another. Morgan had never felt so alive. It was better than any bit of skill she’d ever shown, better than bringing down any kill, better than anything she’d known, except loving Zander.

  The king was tireless, speaking until he was hoarse, and then continuing in a glorified whisper which Zander orated for him. They reached the castle again. Morgan hadn’t realized they’d gone in a complete circle, covering as much acreage as the clans were covering. There were torches and camps set out as far as the eye could see. The sun was setting, and, as The Bruce announced once they arrived, there was a wedding to witness.

  Morgan didn’t know if her legs would be able to hold her, but Zander didn’t let her drop that far anyway. He eased her from the horse, hoisting her to his shoulder and bearing her to the doors of the chapel before letting her down to the side of him.

  “You have done what I have been attempting for years, Morganna,” he said. “You have gathered the clans and given our sovereign time to speak with them, and actually made them listen. For the first time in my life, I think Scotland has a chance. If it would na’ ruin everything, I would take you in my arms right now, and give you every bit of love I have for you. We might not survive it.”

  Morgan’s eyes were wide from his words, and she’d heard wonderful speeches all day. It was a good thing Zander wasn’t using his great orator voice at the moment, she decided.

  The doors of the chapel were opened, and they went from the loud, boisterous noise of a crowd to sanctified, candle-lit reverence in the blink of an eye. Morgan held her breath at the beauty of Argylle’s chapel: the stained glass in the windows, the arched beams in the ceiling, the carved wood of the pews, an
d the swell of music coming from a choir alongside the altar.

  Zander was being directed to the spot of honor at his brother’s right side, and Morgan watched him go with the greatest sense of loss in the world. The Bruce had her with him, surrounded by nobles and attendants and humanity, but Morgan felt alone for the first time since she’d awakened. It shocked her, too. She was used to being alone. She was used to having no one, save herself, to rely on, no one to care about, and nobody who cared about her.

  She didn’t think she liked knowing the lost and lonesome feeling.

  Her legs were a little wobbly, too. She stiffened her knees and backed to the wall, with the other squires, when the Lady Gwynneth came in. That’s when Morgan knew for a certainty, that she had done the right thing, at least by Plato and his bride-to-be. Lady Gwynneth was wearing a bead-encrusted dress, more resembling jeweled water than material, and the train that stretched behind her went the entire length of the chapel.

  It seemed everyone was holding their breath, and when the bride’s face was uncovered by the shaking hands of her groom, there was an audible sigh at how lovely she was. Morgan knew the difference immediately. Gwynneth was no longer unhappy. She was aglow with the joy.

  Morgan met Zander’s eye and had to look away. She couldn’t hold his gaze. She could barely stand to be around such happiness and love and peace permeating the air. It wasn’t for her. It never would be. She’d been spawned into hate and death when she was too young to change it, and despite Zander’s assurances that love would heal her, she knew the truth. Nothing could change it now. She brought a hand to her breast to touch the KilCreggar square, and for some reason, thought she received the peace she craved.

  She still had her face averted when the couple was pronounced wed, and led, with wild cheering and ceremony from the chapel. Morgan only had a moment’s hesitation to wonder where Zander was before he was at her side, his hand touching hers as he bent to her ear.

  “Plato wishes me to tell you of his thanks. He wants you to have this.”

  Morgan looked down at the ring Zander pressed into her palm. She had seen it on Plato’s hand more than once, and the dark sapphire in its center was an uncomfortable reminder of the shade of a certain FitzHugh’s eyes. She curled her palm around it and felt it burn. Not as badly as the instant tears, but badly enough.

  She had to blink them away.

  Now, she truly was being paid.

  “I shall tell him it brought you to tears, should he ask. Stay close, Morganna lass. We’ve a celebration to start. I’ve a plan.”

  “A plan for what?” she whispered.

  His lips pursed. “‘For what?’ she asks,” he said. “To get you in my bed and at my side. What else?”

  “Zander, I—”

  She stopped her words as the emotion choked her off. It didn’t help that the world stopped making noise, the wedding witnesses all ceased to exist, and dark blue, sapphire-toned eyes grew until that’s all she saw. Morgan gulped.

  “I love you, Morganna,” he whispered. “Never doubt it. ’Tis all I think of, and all I know. I want all of this for you.” He stopped and looked about them, then he returned his gaze to her. She hadn’t moved her eyes. “I want you at my side always. I want you as my wife, and I want to be your husband. As God is my witness, it will come to pass, too. You have my promise.”

  “Zander—”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Doona’ argue in a house of the Lord. Wait. I’m being patient, too.”

  “You are?”

  “Aye. I am waiting until we are outside to tell you my plan. That is as patient as I am willing to be.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  ‘‘Because I want you in my arms, and I want to be buried in you, and I want to share your breath and your body, and that kilt shows too damned much of your legs, and you wear no loin-wrap, and a slew of other things. What do you mean why?”

  Morgan swallowed. “I mean, why do you wait to speak it?”

  He frowned. “I doona’ know. Perhaps because what I have planned for you isna’ for the ears of the church.”

  “Oh.”

  She should have known, she told herself. She was doing exactly what she’d said she wouldn’t. She was whoring with a FitzHugh, and receiving payment from his brother. No wonder he didn’t wish to speak of it on sanctified ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Zander’s plan worked perfectly. Of course, Morgan decided, when she was on the opposite side of his door and doing her best to portray Sally Bess’s bulk, it would. The man had a flair for exactly what all the clansmen grouped about everywhere would enjoy, poke each other in the ribs over, and discuss, until her cheeks burned.

  Zander had simply said he wanted to see what Sally Bess had to keep young Squire Morgan interested, and everyone had laughed. Morgan, on the other hand, had to loudly proclaim that she was seeking the lass, Sheila’s bed. Once there, Sally Bess re-dressed and padded Morgan to the correct width, put a huge cloak over the whole, cautioned Morgan about bending her knees to keep her the proper height, and shoved her out the door.

  What she had to listen to, the pinching she had to endure and the fondling of her extra-padded rear, while drunken males tried to steal a kiss and a free fondle, was beyond her experience. She was made to feel every inch the filth of what she’d become.

  Then, she was at Zander’s door, knocking loudly and swaying her buttocks, and his laughter when he saw her, would have made her toss all her dirks into him, if she still had them.

  ‘‘Well, well...look who’s here, lads! ’Tis the wench, Sally Bess. Squire Morgan’s Sally Bess. Come in, come in, darling. I’ve been waiting for you. Lads? I’ll na’ need you tonight.” Zander put every bit of that orator’s voice into every word, and everyone through every hall could probably hear. “I may not need you tomorrow, either! Come here, my large lovely! Show me what you show young Squire Morgan, and I’ll show you what a real man is!”

  Laughter was going through the halls when Morgan shut the door. Then she was pulling the dragon blade to slam it into the footstool before she had to vent more anger. Zander looked at it with surprise, then he looked up.

  “Doona’ ever do that to me again, FitzHugh!” she cried, tossing off the cloak and spitting the words at him.

  “Why Sally Bess, you vixen!” Zander shouted, rising to his feet, and plucking the dragon blade from where it had landed between his legs. “If I dinna’ know better, I’d swear you’d never seen the like. Come here, my night-time love. Goodness, Sally Bess! Where did you learn that?”

  He put a finger to his lips and listened at the door. She held her breath and heard it, too. Voices. Talking. Chortling.

  “My darling, I’d give anything to have this different. To have you at my side, without resorting to such. I love you, Morganna, unto my dying breath.” He was whispering in her ear, one hand beneath her chin, the other lifting her hair, and Morgan stood mesmerized. “I have searched years for you. I would do anything for you. I will even pretend a passion for a fat, lazy, over-used whore to have you, and listen to insults from my clan over my choice.”

  “If you could hear what I had to go through, you’d not feel so put-upon. The things I had said to me! The fondling I had to endure!”

  Zander’s eyes flared and his jaw tightened. “Tell me the man, I’ll put a stop to it.”

  “All of them, Zander. You canna’ stop all of them.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes, and he kissed the side of one. “Forgive me, my love. I should na’ have done this. I should ha’ had more restraint. I should not want your body so badly that I will do this to you. Forgive me.”

  “Why could I not stay as your squire?”

  “Because no man bolts the door with his squire inside with him, and I would never ha’ been able to keep my hands from you, and then a clansman would have seen, and everything The Bruce gained would have been for naught. Come away from the door, darling. I doona’ know how well they hear.”

  “I
should na’ be here, Zander.”

  He sighed, pulling her toward the fire, and undoing her dress as he did so. “Nay, you should na’. You should be at my house, your belly full of a bairn, and your life filled with nothing save how much pleasure I can give you.”

  She flushed. “I should na’ be there, either.”

  Zander had the dress undone and it fell off as she walked. Then, he started on the first of the four more she had on beneath. That one fell off easily, too, and Zander had his eyebrows rising as he saw the wadded shift that was tied on to make fake breasts to fill the gown. He was trying hard not to smile.

  “Oh aye, you should. It will come to pass, too. Scotland’s future will be her own, my sons and daughters will be born free, and my life will be complete. Morganna, what is this, now?”

  He was looking at the basket that had been tied to her back, to make her waddle sufficiently.

  “Doona’ say a word, FitzHugh, or I will take my dragon blade to you and I will na’ miss an important part.”

  “We’re going to need that part, though, Morganna. Have na’ you been listening to me? I want sons. I want daughters. I want lots of both. I want you to give them to me. You, and only you. I want to start now. Jesu’! How many layers did they strap onto you?”

  “We canna’ create a life now, Zander.”

  “Why na’? I’m capable. You’re capable. I’m willing. Are you na’ willing, too?”

  He had too many weapons at his disposal, and none that didn’t pain, clear to the center of her. His breath was a weapon, as he wielded it on her neck, her shoulders, the space between her breasts once he got closer to the chemise she was wearing beneath it all. His touch was another one, as he slid his fingers up her arms, and back down, then along her back as he undid each gown, shoved it to the floor and started anew. His hands were a terrible weapon, too, as he untied the basket, tossed it aside and cradled the real flesh through her final gown, lifting her against him and holding her there.

  His eyes were a vicious weapon, too, perhaps his best. Morgan realized it as she looked up, caught that midnight-blue gaze and ceased to think clearly.