by Jackie Ivie
Zander opened the door and backed out, pantomiming being pushed out, and the door slammed in his face.
Morgan was still shaking her head and having a hard time with the smile when they pronounced her ready, her tartan perfect, her silver bands gleaming, all her dirks on her person, and not a hair of her braid out of place. Then, she was marched down to the castle’s yard, where legions of people seemed to come out to watch as she tossed knives, shot arrows and flung hand axes.
Then, everything went still.
The sun was just rising when pipes began to play. Everyone parted to see why, and Morgan’s mouth dropped open along with everyone else’s. It was the Earl of Argylle, and he wasn’t wearing anything frilly or pretentious, or remotely English. He was attired in his red, gold and navy feile-breacan, a tam on his shaved head and a claymore at his hip.
“Has no one ever seen a laird attired a-fore?” he yelled when everyone stood about open-mouthed.
“Why, my lord Earl. You look splendid!” Zander’s voice was large and loud. The crowd roared approval.
“Earl, no longer, young FitzHugh, but a duke! My true king, and sovereign, Robert the Bruce, has placed a dukedom upon my shoulders, and I have pledged my clan to freeing Scotland and enjoying my new title. Doona’ stand about with nothing to do! Gather the clan! We march!”
Zander grinned at her. “Now, do you see your power?” he whispered to Morgan.
~ ~ ~
The first campsite wasn’t but two leagues from Castle Argylle, and it could still be seen from the right treetop, but the distance felt enormous. The swelling groups about The Bruce were numbering in the thousands, and as each clan set up camp, the king seemed to be there, Morgan and Zander at his side.
He was tireless—it was exhausting to keep with him—and he was regal. Morgan flew dirks, showed slings, and at one point was given a shaft to show her hand at it. She held the spear for a time, testing the weight, the rigidity, the length, how it flexed upward and back down, in her hand with any movement. Zander asked her what she was doing. Morgan looked over at him, and smiled. Then, she planted her feet and ripped a hole clean through the center of their target.
Everyone gasped, then cheered. Then, The Bruce started talking, about Scotland’s ancestors, her beauty, her strength, her unity, and her freedom.
Zander waited for Morgan to look at him, and she knew it. She slid her gaze to his, and lifted her eyebrows like he always did.
“You are amazing,” he whispered.
“’Tis God’s gift, remember?” she replied.
“God has certainly blessed you, I would say, then. I am hopeful our sons are as blessed.” At her hard look, he sucked in on his cheeks. “Oh verra well, our daughters, too.”
Morgan turned her face aside to hide her smile. Then, they were up on horseback and traveling to the next clan, ceaselessly telling all of Scotland’s glory.
It wasn’t until dark was well and officially on the land, that The Bruce called a halt, and within moments had tents erected all about the enclosure. Morgan shied away from even looking at Zander. She was going to share his tent, and it was going to be impossible to resist him. She knew it. He must know it, but it didn’t make what they did right or sanctioned by God. It still made her a whore, who just happened to be a talented marksman.
“Come along, Squire Morgan. My tent awaits. You take the floor. Assist me.”
He had a candle lit, and was posturing and acting for all interested watchers as he tied their door flap down, spoke ceaselessly about what was happening right in front of their noses, and banged and knocked tankards and dishes about. Then he blew out the candle, and Morgan waited.
She was just to the point of thinking he didn’t wish anything of her, when large hands began their caresses. His body fit behind hers, while he murmured something about being extra-thankful for kilts, cautioned Morgan about sound traveling with the lightest whisper, and proceeded to show her that a kiss was an excellent way of catching and holding the sound of her cries of ecstasy.
And he gave her his seed, again.
~ ~ ~
The second week of The Bruce’s tour of the country, they came upon the Mactarvat and Killoren clans, and they weren’t worrying over anything about Scotland, or The Bruce or the Sassenach. All they wanted was to do battle with each other. The king’s entire mass of warriors, squires and lasses spread out along the crests of the valley the two rival clans were facing off in.
The Bruce rode over to where Morgan sat astride Zander’s horse, Morgan. It had been an easy selection, although the horse was huge. The stallion Argylle had gifted to her was too unbroken for her to ride, so Zander had taken it. The one hand-span of difference in size between their mounts made the riders equal in height. It also made them very noticeable.
It had rained all day, but the clouds had broken at midday. The field sparkled with moisture, hatred and blood-lust were in the air, and it seemed that at any moment the clans facing each other below them would charge each other.
“What is the situation?” The king asked Zander.
“I believe Mactarvat had some whiskey stolen and reacted by stealing a lass. They dinna’ know it was the Killoren lass, and they used her. Used her well and soundly. The Mactarvats dinna’ like it.” Zander explained. “’Twas the same feud that almost did me in before my squire Morgan came through the mists and saved me. Isna’ that right, Squire?”
Morgan lowered her head for a moment to hide the smile.
Robert frowned. “This sounds like an English situation.”
Both Zander and Morgan exchanged glances.
“Aye, it does,” The Bruce continued. “It sounds as though the English are the reason good Scots whiskey has to be stolen, and fine Scot lasses have to be taken in payment. The Sassenach have too many rules against whiskey and the making of it. They also have that right of first consummation which the Killoren lass was snatched up to avoid. The English caused everything.”
“I doona’ believe that is what happened,” Morgan said quietly.
He grinned. “True enough, but that’s what I’m going to convince them happened. A Scotsman fighting another Scotsman is a dead man. I doona’ want dead men. I want warriors, live ones. I need warriors. Live ones. That’s why I’m here. Stop their clan skirmish, Squire Morgan.”
“Stop them?” she asked, eyes wide. He didn’t know what he asked. “How?”
“That’s why you’re here, Squire Morgan. Why do you ken the good Lord put you with me here, at this moment, with all your expert marksmanship and valor and fame? I’ll tell you why. He did it so you could stop these clans from killing each other, so they can live to free Scotland. Now, stop them. You will know how. You always know. I will speak when you have done so.”
He rode off and Morgan stared after him, her mouth and throat absolutely dry. “Zander?” she whispered.
“At your side, my love. What will you need?” he asked.
She got down off the horse and looked for a high, stable spot that would be easily seen. There was a boulder wedged out over the field. She nodded toward it. “I’ll need arrows. More than a quiver full. I’ll need that boulder. Follow me.”
She had the quiver in place before she was atop the rock. She had a longbow ready. She had Zander at her side. “What is the emblem on the farthest shield?” she asked.
“Why do you ask it of me? I canna’ even see the fellow carrying it!” Zander looked every bit as offended as his words sounded as he stood beside her, squinting.
“’Tis a bird, I think. A falcon. I may not have enough arrows in my quiver.”
“For what?”
“Hush!” It was a far piece away, and she had to concentrate if she wanted this to be surprising enough to interrupt warriors at war. She reached back to get three arrows between her fingers, drew her bow taut and sighted.
A war cry sounded, heralding the charge. Morgan started raining arrows into the clan bearer’s shield, outlining the bird. She didn’t stop until the bearer thre
w it to the ground. The entire line stopped and looked. Then, she was letting arrows fly at the others. Since this line was more at an angle, all she could do was plant arrows into the ground at their bearer’s feet, surrounding each with a ring of shafts. Her quiver never emptied. Every time she reached back, there were more.
Both clans stopped and looked up at her. Morgan was standing alone, since Zander was flat-out on the rock beside her. She hadn’t even felt him fall. Then, a rainbow broke the clouds, like an omen, lighting from the sky to the field they had been planning to die on.
“Morgan, drop!”
“What?”
“Drop! Now! Beside me! Now!”
She did. There was such an immediate, deafening quiet, she could hear her own heartbeat. Then, she could hear the king, his voice loud enough to carry.
“Can you crawl backwards?” Zander asked.
“I can do whatever you can,” she replied.
“With one exception, please,” he answered, cupping her buttocks as she reached a leg down to the turf.
“Zander!”
“Quick! Before someone gets bright enough to come check for us. Follow me!”
“My quiver never emptied, Zander. How is such a thing possible?”
“Because I was putting them in as fast as you took them out, that’s why. ’Tis a good thing you have me about every time you wish to show off, isn’t it?”
“Zander—”
“No time. Now, move!”
“What about our mounts?”
“You doona’ know how to disappear very well, do you, Squire Morgan? I let them off. They’re at camp by now. Now, run! Now!”
He had her hand in his and they were leaping dead-fall, downed trees and rocks, sliding in and around trees and she held to him the entire way. Her heartbeat was louder, stronger and more rapid than ever, and her lungs felt like they’d run for hours before he slowed, then stopped, bending forward to gasp for breath. Morgan did the same, dropping her hands onto her thighs for support.
Then the gap in the clouds sealed over, and heavy drops pelted them, before becoming a full deluge. Moments later, Morgan’s sleeves were soaked through, her kilt was getting heavy with moisture and her hair was helping the rivulets find her eyes.
Zander threw back his head and roared with laughter. “God, I love Scotland!” he shouted, opening his mouth to catch as much rain as he could.
Then, he was hauling her into his arms and holding her against him, and showing her that his heart was just as loud and fast and hard as hers. The rain was stealing what breath Zander let her have as he took her mouth, sealing them together, and Morgan jumped up, opened her legs to straddle his hips, and linked her ankles together at his back.
She felt him move, it would have been impossible not to in that position, and then they were beneath a large pine, sheltered from the majority of the rain, and finding out that kilts were wonderful for that position, too. And, he gave her his seed, again.
~ ~ ~
Exactly a month after they’d left Argylle’s castle, they turned north. It was what Morgan had been waiting for. She kept it secret from Zander, though. She had to reach FitzHugh land, and she had to finish it. Then, she could see what life was going to hold for her. It wasn’t going to be with Zander, though. What man would want her after she’d taken his brother, his blood, his laird?
She already knew the answer, so she never asked the question of herself. She wasn’t going to tell Zander any of it, but she was feeling on edge the longer they stayed in the lowlands, meeting with clan after clan, while the Highlands they seemed to ignore. Her role was shrinking, too. That was fine with her. It seemed to have Zander’s approval, too. All that was required of her anymore was that she make an appearance, show off her talents, get everyone’s attention, and then disappear, while rumors of her mysticism grew. No one knew what she and Zander really did all those afternoons when they were out of sight.
It was as special and wonderful as the nights were, and night after night, Zander plied her with kisses, love talk and his body, always giving, always making certain of it. Zander had his own plan, and getting her with a bairn was it. He wasn’t even subtle about it. He made certain there were at least two times a night and once a day that he gave her his seed. He was starting to look peaked and exhausted some mornings, although he was still the most handsome, virile man anywhere in any clan.
Even The Bruce had commented on it, and told Zander he’d better take an afternoon off, and stay away from the wenches. He advised him to stay in his tent, with his squire at his side to serve him. If the king had looked toward Morgan when he’d said that, he’d have suspicioned the squire was sickening, too, since she was flaming red with the flush.
The followers filtered away bit by bit as they went farther north. That was expected. It was less costly to find food for them, hunt game for them, and their progress was faster. It also got colder. More than once, Morgan had to lift her own shawl over her head and to her nose while atop Morgan, the horse.
During the nights, however, she was in Zander’s arms, and no place was as warm, or as loving, or starting to feel as desperate.
One such night, when they’d been followers of The Bruce for the full season and a month, Morgan lifted her head on her elbow and asked how close they were to FitzHugh land, and then she waited.
“Why?” Zander replied, rolling onto his back with a grumble of sound she could hear through the chest she was lying atop.
“’Tis said it’s a spacious, beautiful place, with not one, but four lochs. Is that true?”
“Aye. FitzHughs have been atop it for centuries, too. We claim ancestry back to the Norsemen, too.”
“Vikings?” Morgan asked, eyes wide.
“Aye. How else do you explain the blue eyes we all have? And Caesar has a full head of sunniest yellow hair you ever saw.”
“You have a brother named Caesar?”
“Aye. I’m terribly tired, Morgan. I canna’ stay up verra late tonight.”
“I know. You did verra well. I am completely satisfied and very much content with your loving. I won’t be requiring your services again before dawn, and you do need your rest.”
He groaned. “You are insatiable, Morganna.”
She giggled. “You just want to make certain to get me with a bairn, although I already told you ‘tis na’ possible. Nor would it be a good idea.”
“I just want you to get you with a bairn? What sprite stole your wits? I find you extremely tempting, Morganna, my love. I nearly went crazed over it, remember? I canna’ deny I doona’ wish a bairn with you. ’Tis no secret, now is it? But, you are a verra desirable woman, too, and I am no auld man. I canna’ ride my horse without thinking of your supple thighs. I canna’ take a step without recollection of your thirsty body devouring mine, and I canna’ sleep without making certain you know how loved you are. I must have failed this eve, however.”
“You never fail at...that, Zander.”
“I must have. You’re still talking.”
She giggled. “So tell me then, and I’ll let you sleep. What is your other brother’s name?”
“Ari,” he replied.
“Is that short for something?”
“Probably was meant to be,” he answered, “but that’s the entire name.” He yawned. “Ari. Second born.”
“Who’s the other one?”
He started his deep, grunting breathing that was the beginning of snoring. Morgan jabbed him in the ribs. “Zander!”
“What now?”
“Who it the other brother?”
“Oh. Third born is Caesar. I just told you of him.”
“And…?”
“There’s Plato. Second youngest. Two years of age on myself. You know him. You spent some time in his arms atop his horse, now that I recollect. I am rapidly awakening, Morganna, if that is your game.”
“You’re not about to be jealous, are you?”
“If you were apart from me, and in another’s arms, then aye, I�
�m damned jealous, among other things. Plato had best watch his back.
Morganna giggled again. “I am na’ interested in Plato, Zander. Never was.”
Zander stilled. “’Tis a verra lucky thing for my brother, I would say.”
“You are very good at changing the subject, Zander. Very.”
“I seek to answer her questions, so she’ll leave me sleep, and she calls it other than what it is. Changing the subject? What subject are we on?”
“Your brothers.”
“Oh. Them. Trust me, Morganna, when I tell you you’ve latched on to the finest FitzHugh, and losing another moment of rest over the rest of them is a waste of good sleep.”
“Zander FitzHugh!” she whispered, giving it the emphasis it deserved.
“What now?”
“You haven’t told me the middle one’s name.”
“Oh. Cae…sar,” he replied, splitting the name with a yawn.
She poked his rib, receiving a grunt for her trouble. “Morganna, ’tis a lucky think you are the squire, and I the lord. With the schedule you place on me, I’d na’ survive your service.”
“Zander…I’m warning you,” she said in a playful rumble of voice.
“Oh very well. I would live to die in your service. What is it you asked of me again?”
“I already know about Plato, and Ari, and now I know about Caesar. I also met up with the eldest, your laird, Phineas…so who is the sixth FitzHugh?” Her voice caught on Phineas’ name, but he seemed not to notice.
“Oh. The one between Plato and Caesar is William.”
Morgan’s eyes widened, even in the dark of the tent. “You have a brother named William?”
“Aye,” he responded, sleepily. “Morganna, we reach Old Aberdeen burgh tomorrow, early. We’ll have a long day. We really need our rest.”
“Why do you have a brother named William? ’Tis too normal a name for your family. Zander!” She had to nudge him again.
“What?” he replied. “You are a slave driver, Morganna. Did I leave you wanting? Is that it?”
She giggled again. “Nay, never that. You are every inch a man, Zander FitzHugh. Every inch.” She ran a fingernail over a thigh and under his kilt and then she was stroking, loving, enjoying. “Every, glorious, hard—”