Seeking The Truth - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 11)

by Shea,Lisa

  Her father’s face glowed. “A woman should not be taken by force,” he insisted, “although persuasion is quite fair in my book. Take my wife here,” he continued, turning to Jocelyn. “I knew the moment I saw her at the harvest dance, in her bright red dress, that she was going to be mine. I chased her down, seduced her into submission, and three weeks later we were married. I did not give her time to resist or change her mind.”

  There was a hammering on the door, and an elderly voice called through it. “Asa – do you have that knife I ordered?” Morgan glanced through the window and saw Jonas, the old farmer she had helped home from the tavern.

  “A minute, Jonas!” called out her father with a boisterous yell, climbing up from the table to go help his customer.

  Sean leant back from the table, eyeing her mother with curiosity. “So is that how you saw the courtship?” he asked with interest.

  Morgan shook her head, standing to gather up the serving platters. She had heard her father tell the tale so many times, it was old news to her. She brought the items over to stack on a cupboard against one wall.

  Jocelyn ran her hand through her hair, her eyes twinkling as she looked after her husband. “You should have seen him back then,” she reminisced, her voice becoming fond. “God’s teeth, he was a bear of a man. Broad shouldered, taller than the other boys, he had this drive in him. You knew he would be something. That strumpet Clemence Baker was after him like a leech on a leg, but I swore I would have him for myself. I did everything I could to get that man to notice me, and once I turned his head, I made sure he never looked away again.”

  Morgan spun in shock, caught completely off guard by this revelation. In all her years she had imagined her mother to be the innocent one, trampled down by her overbearing father, swept off her feet before she could resist.

  “Dad said he rushed you into marrying him quickly,” she blurted out in surprise. “That he never gave you a chance for second thoughts!”

  Jocelyn smoothed her hair back from her face. “Oh, lass, believe me, I could have chosen another if I had wanted. I had my share of followers. It was your father I desired, I had to have. I let him believe it was all his own idea because that suits him. If I had not wanted him with all my body I would not have married him.”

  Her eyes half closed, and she took a long drink on her mead. “I can still remember what it was like, that long, sultry summer. Just one look at him was enough to make me lose all focus on whatever else I was doing.” She glanced up at her daughter with a playful look. “Surely you know that feeling,” she added, chuckling at Morgan’s confusion.

  “You two are always fighting,” protested Morgan, staring at her mother.

  Sean smiled. “I had not noticed that.”

  Morgan sighed in exasperation. “That is only because …” Her voice failed her. She turned to gaze at Sean, bewilderment welling within her. He was right. The evening had been relaxed, even enjoyable. She remembered the other dinners with friends featuring a running litany of arguments, the same issues coming up as they did every day. Why had things been different tonight?

  She thought back over the evening. She remembered several times that a flash point had begun. For example, her father had brought up his issue of her needing a husband, needing protection. Then Sean had …

  Her eyes widened in understanding, and Sean nodded to her quietly, taking a long sip of mead. She came over to sit at the table again, taking up her own mug, downing it in one long pull.

  Sean had simply redirected the conversation. A minor change of topic, a casual comment, and every fight had been averted. It had been so easy, she had not even noticed it was going on. Reliving the conversations in her mind, she saw how he had done it again and again, had eased them past the sticking points which normally would have escalated and embroiled them for the entire evening.

  Her father’s voice boomed, filling the room. “That is done with.” He rejoined them at the table. “Sorry about that, old Jacob has been waiting on his knife for a while now.” He grabbed the pitcher of mead from the sideboard and refilled the mugs, then sat back, picking up his own mug.

  “A toast,” he offered boisterously, “to family. Without family, life really is not worth living.”

  The mugs were clinked all around, and Morgan took a long drink, her mind awhirl in musings.

  *

  It was long past dark when she and Sean were heading slowly back toward the keep, the moonlight shining their way down the quiet lane. Morgan had not spoken since they left her parents’ home, and Sean made no move to break the silence. There were so many ideas, so many wonderings spinning through her head that she did not know where to begin. She had built up an idea of her parents’ courtship over the years, had been so sure that her mother was an innocent victim taken into her father’s home almost by force. She had blamed her father’s aggressive attitude for all the family fights, figuring if he could only be tamed somehow that everything would be better.

  She saw, suddenly, that they were all participants in the dynamic of what was going on. It had become clear with Sean’s smooth intervention. It was not just her father riling things up; her mother had been equally at fault at times. She had to admit that even she had occasionally prodded at a sore point out of habit.

  “We were in a rut,” she finally said aloud, shaking her head at the wonder of it. “My father would say something, and I would replay in my mind all previous times he had said something similar. I already had the rejoinders laid out in my head. I would not hesitate; I had to be right. It never occurred to me to take a different tack.”

  “I visited a monastery once in France,” commented Sean by way of an answer. “A groove had been worn down the center of the stairs by all of the monks walking down that same path, single file, for centuries. They could easily have walked to the left or to the right. They followed in the groove because it was there, because it was what they knew.”

  Morgan ran her hand distractedly through her hair. “It had never occurred to me …” she mused, her voice soft. Finally she turned sideways to look at the man who rode by her side.

  “Thank you for coming,” she murmured, her tone heartfelt. “I never would have imagined I would be saying this. When my mother asked me to dinner, it was the last thing I would have wanted to do – and to have you drawn into it was sheer torture. I never could have imagined the way it turned out, and I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

  “It was my pleasure,” responded Sean, his eyes serious. He looked back out toward the path they were riding on. “I only wish someone had done the same for me, years ago,” he added in a low voice.

  “So you know something of this type of family?” asked Morgan, curious.

  Sean nodded quietly. “My mother – Lady Donna’s sister – was a wildcat. She went against her family’s wishes and ran off to marry a much poorer man who matched her heated temper. Our home was a place of thrown dishware, screaming matches, of shouted arguments in the middle of the night. It is part of why I left home so early to join the soldiers.”

  He shook his head at the memory, and his voice dropped low. “I swore to myself that I would never marry a woman like that. That if I did wed, it would be to a wife who was demure and quiet.”

  His voice drifted away, and Morgan wondered if he was even aware he had spoken aloud.

  They lapsed into silence again, and when they arrived back at the keep they cleaned down and stabled their horses in easy rhythm. Together they walked into the quiet keep, making their way up the stairs to their room.

  Sean stopped at her bedroom door, looking down at her with a distant look in his eyes.

  “It was an honor to meet your family,” he commented softly. “If my parents were alive, I would return that offer.”

  She took his hands in hers, looking down for a moment. “You have Lady Donna,” she reminded him gently, “and you have Roger and Peter. I imagine they are more close to you than many brothers are.”

  “You are rig
ht, of course,” responded Sean, giving himself a shake. “I am very grateful for their constancy. It is just hard, with first Giles dying, and then Eli. It reminds me that time is passing.”

  “Giles?” asked Morgan, confused. “I think you mentioned him; he was a member of your group?”

  Sean waved a hand. “Yes, sorry, he passed away over a year ago.” He took in a deep breath. “In any case, thank you.”

  He brought his lips down to her hands, pressing a kiss against them for a long moment. He stood up straight again, gently releasing her hands, and Morgan was swept with a sense of loss. He raised a hand to stroke her cheek tenderly for a long moment, and Morgan half expected him to draw her into a kiss, but instead he turned and moved down the hall to his room.

  She watched him go, watched him step into his room, then stood in the hall for a long while before turning and retreating into her own bedroom.

  She lay for many long hours, staring at the ceiling, unable to release the streams of thoughts which tumbled through her head.

  Chapter 8

  Morgan stretched into wakefulness, blinking at the streams of sunshine reaching her door. She uttered a low curse. Rolling to her feet, she started digging through her closet for a dress to pull on over her chemise. She had overslept again, and sparring was about to begin, with or without her. She had no intention of missing the morning of fun.

  She braided her hair with flying fingers, then skipped down the stairs, heading out the main doors toward the kitchen buildings. She let out a breath of relief; she was apparently not the only one getting a late start. Christian was leaning casually against one wall, talking softly with Letitia, a half loaf of bread in one hand. He glanced up as Morgan came to a stop, winked at Letitia then meandered over, offering the bread.

  “Hungry, sleepyhead?” he asked with a chuckle. Letitia moved quickly to the side wall, and in a moment she had returned with a pair of tankards of ale, offering them shyly.

  Morgan nodded her thanks, taking a long draw, turning to head out toward the courtyard, ripping a mouthful of bread from the loaf with her teeth. “I need to catch up on my sleep someday,” she muttered wearily under her breath.

  They came up over the rise toward the sparring area, and the other four men were already there, standing together in a group, talking. The men looked up as Morgan and Christian came over to them, and Sean strode over immediately, his eyes going from Christian’s to Morgan’s in a sharp sweep.

  “You two are late risers,” he commented in a low voice.

  “Yeah, well, we were busy,” teased Morgan, drinking down a long draw of her ale. “Are you ready for me?”

  He drew his sword without a word, nodding over toward the open area. She finished off her brew, put down the mug, then tossed the bread back to Christian. “This was yours, after all,” she grinned, then moved to join Sean.

  He held patiently in a guard while she swung her sword a few times, loosening up her shoulders, then saluted him and drew back. She set in motion, circling around him, watching him carefully. She had crossed blades with him several times now, was becoming attuned to his patterns, his style of action.

  She smiled at him, and then she lunged, attacking in a high curve, drawing town toward his bicep. He came up in a low block, deflecting her past him. She spun, going for his right shoulder, and he turned in parallel, tossing her blade to the side. She rotated, dodged, jumped back, her flexible body a perfect counterpoint to his longer reach and strength.

  The minutes flowed by, and she found herself forgetting about making points, about being the victor. She sought out the hits, and he was always there. He moved in at her weak spots, but she covered them, countered them, deflected them. The world around them vanished, and it was only his eyes she watched, judging where they aimed, what the set of his shoulders implied, what the placement of his feet meant. The moments cascaded, and time seemed to come to a stop in a world of attention, of movement, of rolling action.

  Roger’s voice boomed like a thunderclap into her focus. “You guys ready to switch off?”

  Morgan pulled up into a guard, looking around. The other four were watching them, appreciative gazes echoing on each face. She shook her head to clear her mind, nodding.

  Sean was looking at her with focused attention, his emotions hidden behind his dark eyes. Was he upset at not winning? Impressed with her holding him off? She swept a salute at him, turning to move over with Roger. He chuckled softly as they set themselves up across from each other.

  “So who won?” he asked, acknowledging her with a salute, drawing back into a low guard.

  “I do not know,” she offered in a quiet voice, pondering it for a moment. She gave herself a soft shake, remembering to return his salute before bringing her sword before her. “I guess we both lost. Neither of us scored a hit.”

  Roger did not respond. He looked her over for a long moment, then he was in motion, peppering her with a series of quick blows. She parried, and then he retreated again, falling into a slow, methodical circling. “Maybe that means you both won,” he commented at last, his voice tinged with melancholy. “It is easy enough to be aggressive, to go after what you want. It is much harder to defend yourself, to keep yourself safe.”

  “I suppose,” agreed Morgan, and then he was swinging, aiming for her waist. She held her ground, deflecting one blow, then a second. She spun, pressing in on him, feinting low before driving high at his shoulder. It was an easy enough block, one Roger should have spotted from a mile away. His eyes were distant, shadowed, and his guard came up slowly. She pulled in her arm, delaying her swing, waiting until his sword was high before landing the blow on it.

  He blinked, pressing her away easily, nodding in acknowledgement. He gave himself a shake, then moved in against her, his movements coming more quickly.

  Their swords crossed, crossed again, and he began to increase the tempo, transitioning into a tricky series which she found herself challenged to keep up with. He moved left, right, left, right, left – damn! The second blow came again to the left, and she dove to make the block, knowing she was a second too late. To her surprise, his attack seemed to stall, and she got her guard into position barely in time, deflecting his blow away from her hip.

  “I think that was a gift,” she chuckled quietly, resetting her feet beneath her, giving her sword a gentle spin.

  “Let us call it an act of karma,” he offered with a nod, the tiniest hint of a smile moving across his face before vanishing again.

  Morgan watched as Roger fell back into his gloom, saw it in his eyes, felt it in his movements, and she eased up on him, pressing him, but not too hard, enjoying the interchange but not driving to take advantage. For his part, Roger was an able enough opponent, even in his distracted state, and she realized that he had deliberately held back on one missed block, then another. By the time they drew to a stop, Morgan felt an odd contentment with their time. Usually she would have been actively counting each hit, praising herself for her victories, mentally berating herself for each lost opportunity. Here she was satisfied, having simply relished the experience.

  “Well done,” she congratulated Roger with honest feeling. “I enjoyed that immensely.”

  He nodded to her, and then Peter moved into her view, greeting her, setting up into a guard.

  She was more relaxed than she had been in ages, more focused on her actions, on every movement which Peter made as he settled himself into position, as he drove in at her. She made the blocks easily, watching his neck as he turned, sensing where the next blow would come. His eyes led, his body followed, and her feet moved to match, to deflect him, to turn and move in against him.

  The block and draw began to sound out a rhythm in her head, and in a moment she found herself singing along to it, her voice light and merry.

  “Summer is icumen in,

  Loudly sing cuckoo!”

  Peter chuckled as he moved, taking up the song as he pressed in, their swords crossing easily with the rhythm.

 
; “Growing sed and bloomin’ med,

  And springs the wood anew,

  Sing cuckoo!”

  Morgan picked up the counterpoint, starting the song again, her voice rising in pure harmony to his, as they turned, swung, dodged, ducked, moved around each other and through each other. He drove in hard toward her shoulder, she deflected it to the left, dove in at his waist, and he moved to the left, laughing, singing, pressing in at her again. The song went round and round, the harmonies became stronger, their blows acting as percussion to the tune.

  Christian laughed in glee. “Are you two ever going to finish?” His eyes sparkled. “God’s teeth, is this a sparring practice or a madrigal session?”

  Morgan stepped back, brimming with mirth. “Now, that was fun,” she congratulated to Peter with a sweep of her sword, stepping forward to draw him into a hug. “I do not think I have ever had a sparring session like that.”

  “My pleasure,” offered Peter with a wink. “Us older men do have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

  Sean’s voice cut low across them. “Yes, and it is time for us to head up to the main troops,” he added, his gaze sweeping between Peter and Morgan. “Until later,” he added, his eyes on hers.

  Again she found the emotions behind his eyes to be unreadable, but she let it be, buoyed by the glowing sunshine and the freshness of the day. “Certainly,” she returned with a smile, turning and heading down into the gardens. She sat down between the rows of lavender, hiding herself in their midst. She breathed in the rich fragrance, pulling off her guards, stretching out in the gentle breezes, looking up at the sky.

  In the far distance the bright blue was beginning to tinge with grey as an afternoon rainstorm began to draw into sight. She smiled with pleasure. The flowers could use the water, and she adored the fresh tang in the air after showers moved through the area. She lay on her back for as long as she could, watching the clouds drift in, enjoying the growing breezes. She waited for the first heavy raindrops to fall before drawing up her leather items and heading into the keep.