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

by Shea,Lisa

  Her heart was still full of melody and song, and she made her way over to Lady Donna’s study. Lady Donna kept a pair of small hand drums in there, as well as a dulcimer. Maybe she could play on them a while, pick out a tune or two.

  To her surprise, the room was not empty. Peter sat on one end of a leather couch, a pair of candles by his head in the growing gloom of the rainclouds, reading a thick codex. Morgan pulled up quickly.

  “I am so sorry, I did not mean to disturb you,” she called out in a friendly tone. “I can seek amusement elsewhere.”

  “No trouble at all,” assured Peter, marking his place with a finger. “I was just re-reading The Odyssey. Your aunt kindly allowed me to ransack her ample library while I was here.”

  Morgan raised her eyes, her voice becoming rich and resonant.

  “Sing to me of the man, Muse,

  The man of twist and turns

  Driven time and again off course,

  Once he had plundered

  The hallowed heights of Troy.”

  Peter’s eyes widened with interest. “So you know the work?”

  Morgan grinned. “Lady Donna is a great fan of educating us ignoramuses. She has read and re-read that to us so many times that I am sure I could quote passages by heart.”

  “Come, sit,” enthused Peter encouragingly. “What do you think of it?”

  Morgan moved over to take the seat beside him, drawing her feet up beneath her in a tuck. “I enjoy the story greatly. Some of those battle sequences are spellbinding. The mighty Cyclops – he must have been a creature to behold!”

  Peter nodded. “I knew a man with one eye, once,” he mused. “He had lost his other in a raid on a bandit camp. He functioned quite nicely with just the good eye.”

  “Then, when Odysseus came home to reclaim his wife and his lands, that was a scene to remember,” breathed Morgan, her eyes bright.

  The door to the study pushed open. “There you are,” called out Sean’s voice, his eyes swiveling in the dark to meet her face. They sharpened as they came into focus, found Peter sitting beside her. He stopped, suddenly, his eyes going between the two.

  Peter nodded to Sean. “We were just discussing The Odyssey,” he commented neutrally. “The suitors, and Penelope.”

  “Ah yes,” bit out Sean, bringing his gaze back to Morgan, his posture stiff.

  Peter’s voice eased into the tense quiet. “I think Penelope should have finished her period of mourning,” he added mildly. “She waited twenty years for her husband Odysseus to return to her. Surely by then she should have accepted he had been lost at sea or died on a battlefield. It was time for her to move on, to accept a new love.”

  Morgan’s voice was bright with amusement. “Hah, you would say that,” she contested. “You are a man.”

  Sean’s gaze held hers. “You think she should have waited?”

  Morgan chuckled. “Not at all,” she rebutted. “She should have courted away, certainly! She had her home full of suitors, was accepting their attentions, drinking and carousing with them. However, she went about it with a deceptive heart! She told them she would marry someone as soon as she finished a funeral weaving. She wasted many hours weaving that cloth and then undoing the weaving at night to keep up her deceptions.”

  She waved a hand expressively in the air. “Why go through that unnecessary time and agony? She should have simply told them she would do as she would. She should have announced herself a widow, maintained her own household, and enjoyed her life. She could have lit fires to commemorate the death of her beloved husband, cherished her memories and gone on with her freedom. There was no need to take on another husband. She had all she wanted.”

  Sean shook his head. “She should have waited,” he insisted quietly. “Odysseus was a good man, a man of respect. He was coming back to her. She should have trusted in that and waited for him.”

  “How could she possibly have known that?” scoffed Morgan. “He was gone for twenty years! Who knew what he was up to when he was off gallivanting? Who knew what wild activities he had been engaged in?”

  Sean’s eyes were serious. “Did Penelope falter in all those long years?”

  Morgan shook her head. “Of course not. She was a woman of honor,” she announced proudly. “She held to her code.”

  “Had she chosen a man to match her?” pressed Sean in a low voice.

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Morgan. “Otherwise she never would have vowed to be by his side.”

  “Well then,” commented Sean quietly, spreading his hands.

  Morgan turned her head, looking out into the growing dusk beyond the window. “Such a man does not exist,” she bit out finally, stretching her legs, shaking the feeling back into them before standing. “Therefore, it is a moot point.” She ran her hands through her hair, brushing it out, then rolled her shoulders. “Now, if you do not mind, I will go prepare for dinner.” She strode past him, pushing him aside as she went, heading up toward her bedchambers.

  She thought of Penelope as she sat in her room, and after consideration she changed out of her dusty outfit into a fresh one, a demure dress of the softest grey, a tracery of black embroidery along its edges, bringing out the highlights in her ebony hair. She coiled her hair back in a series of spirals along her cheek, letting it draw together with a pin in the shape of a shield. She sat for a long while, staring at her reflection, the focused calm of the morning returning to her heart.

  Finally she stood, moving over to the door, pressing it open. Sean was before her, wearing a smoky grey tunic, leaning against the wall, his eyes moving slowly up to hers. He rolled off the wall, looking her over with a quiet gaze, his eyes solemnly appreciative. He offered his arm without a word.

  Morgan took it, sliding her fingers beneath the firm muscles, feeling them flex beneath her touch. She moved easily beside him, making her way down the stairs. She felt content, and there was a hint of another emotion. She sought to put a name on it. Was it pride? She glanced up at him, saw him return the gaze, and a hesitant softness moved into her smile. Yes, it was pride. He was a top notch swordsman, the result of focus, effort, training, and hard work. He was a loyal friend to his companions. He had shown his care for his aunt on numerous occasions. He was, in all meanings of the word, a man worthy of respect.

  He drew to a stop at the foot of the stairs, looking down at her, his eyes widening as he took in the softness of her gaze. His free hand came up to tenderly stroke the side of her face, and she closed her eyes, sighing at the touch, as the warmth of it washed through her.

  Christian’s laughter bubbled behind them. “It is about time,” he teased. Her eyes flared open again, and she looked around. “Lady Donna was going to send me up to fetch you.” He gave her a nudge, then strolled to the head table. In a moment Sean was in motion, bringing her along, settling her down before taking the seat beside her.

  Lady Donna was laughing to Peter, toasting him with her mug of ale. “I am afraid I agree with Morgan completely on this,” she explained, drinking down a long pull. “Penelope did not need a fresh man to take control of her household after twenty long years. Look at how well she had managed on her own! She had ample food for many guests. There was more than enough wine. She had cared for the servants, the stables, and the lands. Why turn that all over to a new husband? Who knew what rules he would bring in, what demands he would make? She was in charge of her own destiny. She relished that.”

  “Obviously she craved company,” pointed out Peter, leaning back as the servants brought in roast duck, turnips, fresh bread, and other items, laying them out on the table. “She had her house filled morning, noon, and night with suitors.”

  “We all crave company,” joked Lady Donna, patting him on the arm. “Look at my table here! Still, it does not mean I must marry one of you to feel contented.”

  Morgan breathed in the delicious aroma of the fresh bread, then took a bite. “I still think she wasted her time with the weaving,” she pointed out. “She could have been crea
ting actual clothes for her son, or perhaps presents for friends. Why spend all your time doing something just to fool people, only to undo it later on? Is life so meaningless that you can waste long hours in such silly pursuits?”

  Sean’s comment came without judgment. “You spend hours drinking.”

  “Oh, and you are one to talk!” retorted Morgan, nudging him hard in his side. “I like to drink.” She picked up her mug, draining it down to the end, putting it back onto the table with a contented sigh. “It makes me feel good.”

  “You feel poorly otherwise?” he asked, his gaze on her.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she objected, turning to face him. “I focus on the drink. I enjoy that.”

  “You focus on the drink so you forget other parts of your life,” he replied in a quiet voice.

  “Fine. Yes,” she snapped, reaching for her mug, blinking at its empty weight, putting it back onto the table with a tense movement. Sean reached over without comment, refilling her mug. She took down a long drink, relishing its smooth flow down her throat, suddenly aware of how it blanketed her thoughts, muted the swirling chatter. She was seeking that oblivion, that smoothing away of feelings.

  “You could not understand,” she muttered in a low voice, her hand running along the heavy sturdiness of the mug’s handle.

  “Maybe I understand completely,” he returned, his gaze steady on her.

  “Then what,” she bit out, her voice almost a growl. “You disapprove? That seems hypocritical.”

  “Maybe if you found a way to be content,” he offered, his voice so faint that she had to draw closer to make out the words.

  “I am content,” she responded instantly, defensively, curling her fingers around the handle of her mug.

  “No.” His voice was sure, not judging, simply stating a fact. His eyes moved to hers. “Perhaps if you were fully, honestly, all-encompassingly … content.”

  His hand moved out onto the table, palm up, patiently waiting at her side. She knew it was there. Suddenly she was caught between worlds. She focused on the sturdy, comfortable feel of her mug of ale in her hand. It was half full. There was plenty there yet, ample amount to bring her further into oblivion, into the state where the voices and noises echoed around her in a steady rush of a raging river, drowning her in its depths. She paused for a long moment, her hand unwilling to relinquish the reliable crutch, the solid link to a tried-and-true escape. It was what she knew.

  Then her mind drifted back to the swordplay of the morning. She had been content then, far more than she could remember, participating in the fresh awareness of the give and take, the movements without victory or defeat. It was the action which had been fulfilling, the in-the-moment tune to each opponent’s mind and body. She had enjoyed that time in a way she had not thought possible. If she could but trust …

  She let out a hard breath. Trust. Trust was a luxury she could not indulge in. Trust was how hearts were broken, how wives and husbands screamed at each other until dawn, trading insults, making accusations of the vilest kind. Trust was how she ended up cowering in bed, her pillow pulled tightly over her ears, praying they would just finish, just end it, just go to sleep and let her cry.

  She gripped her mug tighter, bringing it to her lips, downing the ale in a long draw. She focused on her food, on taking another bite of bread, and the conversation swirled around her, the laughter, the noise. She let it go on, as she often did, tuning it out, hearing every conversation and none. She followed the timbre, not the words, her body always on alert for the harsh tones, the prelude to danger.

  Her mug was refilled, and she reached for it automatically, looking down into it, her shoulders slumping. It was always like this. She was walking down a long road, and it seemed her only choice was to keep moving, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to race forward, lest she get drawn in, lest her memories finally catch up to her.

  Her eyes glanced down, and she realized with a start that Sean’s hand was still there, still open on the table, palm still up, fingers open. She looked again at the mug, the liquid within, so warm, so inviting. She could trust in that. She knew what it held, what it offered. And yet …

  She slowly, carefully put her mug back down on the table. Yes, she knew what the mug brought. It was an old friend, a constant companion. Its gift was comfort, and familiar … and stagnant. It tamped her down, kept her in one place. What Sean offered was different. It was uplifting, opening, and expanding.

  It was also a risk.

  She took in a long breath as the servants moved around her, clearing the table, moving like ghosts around her world. She did not see them, did not hear the voices.

  She let out her breath with careful attention. With infinite slowness she uncurled her fingers from the mug, let the handle drift away from her, let the contact be broken. Then, slowly, carefully, with the most delicate of movements, she lowered her hand to rest in his.

  There was a frisson of contact; his body tensed, then relaxed. She could sense the effort he made not to move, not to react. Her face eased into a smile at his care. She wove her fingers into his, finally looking up at him, drinking in the softness of his gaze as he returned her tender grasp. He brought her hand up slightly, lowering his head down, pressing a whisper of a kiss on her hand. He held his head there for a long moment, then raised his head to look at her.

  Christian called out from over her shoulder. “Come on, Morgan,” he prodded. “We are pouring out the mead. Maybe Lady Donna will read us the Nymph scene from The Odyssey. That book seems to be on everyone’s tongue tonight.”

  Morgan shook her head, her eyes on Sean’s. “I have not slept well in a while,” she admitted quietly, “but I think I will finally catch up tonight. I need to, after all, with Sean’s party coming tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Suit yourself,” chuckled Christian, moving to sit with the others by the fireplace.

  Sean stood by her side, holding her hand, and in a moment she rose to be beside him, looking up at him quietly. He smiled with gentle tenderness, turning to escort her slowly across the room, up the stairs, over to her chamber door.

  “Are you really sleepy,” he asked in a low murmur, his eyes holding hers. “I am happy to stay and talk if you wish.” He glanced at her door for a moment, then back down at her. “We can use my room, if that suits you better.”

  “I am sure you would love that,” chuckled Morgan, her eyes bright.

  “I am serious, we would simply talk,” he insisted, his gaze steady. “I swear, by my honor.”

  Morgan looked into his face, and her heart caught. He was, indeed, quite true in his intentions. She took a step forward, raising her lips to his, pressing them in a long, tender kiss. His arms came around her, and he held her close, gently, almost innocently, as if they had first met. She released the kiss, nuzzled against his cheek slightly, then drew back a few inches, looking up into his eyes.

  “Truly, I am exhausted,” she admitted. “My sleep has not been well these past nights. Maybe tonight I can catch up.”

  “Then let me help.” He leant forward, bringing his lips to her forehead, bringing his hands around to gently cradle her head. He pressed his lips to her head, drew her tenderly against his chest. She moved against him, wrapped her arms around his back, secure and safe and warm against him. His aromas of musk and leather and smoky wood came up around her, and she relaxed, trusted, became content. By the time he released her, she could barely stand.

  “Good night, sweet Morgan,” he whispered in a low voice, then turned and moved back toward his own room. She watched him go, watched him slip into his chambers, and then she turned, moving to her own bed.

  For the first time in months – perhaps in years – she slid into bed perfectly relaxed, falling asleep in blissful contentment.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday morning dawned with bright sunshine, but Morgan lay in her bed for a long while, hesitant to climb out of bed. She knew how she would have approached today’s party had it
been even just two weeks previous. She would have found her lowest cut dress, drenched herself with seductive perfume, and figured out a way to torment every man present. It would have been an evening of outrageous drinking and even more egregious activity.

  She pushed off the cover and went to her window, looking out at the practice grounds, at the meadows spreading beyond the wall. She struggled with the idea that Sean was changing her, was altering her behavior. She knew in her heart that it was not true. Sean had never asked her to be any different than she was. He had not once said that she should behave in a certain manner. Somehow his being around was … inspiring her, in a way. It was drawing out of her a desire for something more, a deeper level of meaning. Her old ways had been quite fine for her old life, just as a child’s security blanket is necessary for a toddler. She was outgrowing them, moving on to something new. She wondered with growing fascination just what it was that awaited her in her future.

  She went to the standing closet in the corner of her room, pulling open the drawers, looking through the tunics and chemises which hung there. There – in the back – a dusky, rose-red dress her mother had made for her for her eighteenth birthday. She had only worn it once, then stuffed it away as being too old fashioned, too staid and boring. She had felt embarrassed that her mother had made such an out-of-date item for her.

  She hung it from the open door of the closet, taking a fresh look at the dress in the bright light of day. The embroidery of rosebuds along the neckline and sleeves was exquisite. The stitches were nearly invisible along the seams.

  She called for a bath, and in a short while the wooden bucket was set up in a corner of her room, full of steaming water. She soaked for a long while, letting her pores open, letting the sweat and dirt float free of her skin. She took in deep breaths, filling her lungs, releasing out all of her worry and tenseness.

  She would make a new start. She had seen with her own family that it was possible. Every day was a new opportunity to start on a fresh path. She had been drifting, content to enjoy the moment, to do whatever struck her on a whim. She would still be aware of what was around her, to appreciate the beauty in each day, but she would also begin to develop goals for herself as well. There were many things she had always dreamt about doing – visiting London, going to Bath. It was time to start turning some of her dreams into reality.