by Shea,Lisa
“I will tell you a story,” responded Roger, his voice distant. “A few years after Sean joined the soldiers, he took a leave to return home, and I went with him. Their village is rather small, and his house was one of the meanest in the area. His parents, as you have heard, were constantly fighting. His childhood was not ideal by any stretch of the imagination.
“He took me to the one place he enjoyed – the small church near his home. The priest there had taken pity on him and in his spare hours taught him swordplay. Apparently the man had served in the crusades for several years before taking orders. There, in the corner of the practice yard, stood a statue of the virgin Mary, tucked into a niche.”
His voice became even more low, and Morgan nudged her steed more close to his, her eyes drawing to his.
“The statue was made of the finest alabaster, her skin pure white, her hair stained to the color of sunshine. Her dress was the palest eggshell blue. It was a beautiful work of art, the most lovely thing for miles.”
His eyes moved to meet hers. “Sean worked on his dreams before that statue, every day, saw it gazing at him, in his place of refuge. Is it any wonder that his childhood mind latched onto that vision, and that when he found a real life equivalent, he immediately assumed it held the same honorable traits he had in his own heart?”
He smiled wryly, then looked ahead again. “Each of us has an ideal vision in our mind, of the ideal man, the ideal woman, what they should ‘look like’. Those visions all spring from somewhere. A story we were told as a child, someone we knew, you never know where those first impressions originate. Then we spend our entire life chasing a ghost, chasing a physical image which in the end is completely meaningless. We all age, we wrinkle, we sag. What someone looks like is immaterial. It is what they are inside – how they are as a person – that truly matters.”
“It is so hard to overcome that drive,” commented Morgan wryly.
Roger chuckled. “I never said it would be easy,” he agreed. “If we were not driven to go after people we found attractive – and to mate with them immediately – I wonder how fewer babies would be born in the world each year? If we all sat back and gave serious consideration to who we were going to be with, to the consequences of our actions, I am sure there would be fewer marriages and children.”
Morgan thought for a long while about the concept, going back in her mind over the past few weeks. Finally she glanced over at Roger thoughtfully.
“What was your first impression of Edward, when you saw him at the gambling den?” she asked quietly, her eyes bright with curiosity.
Roger smiled, nodding his head. “Edward is the perfect example,” he agreed. “The man was handsome, strong, and apparently quite charming. If I had met him at a bar, he is the man I would have invited over to my table, bought a mug of ale for.” He tilted his head. “How about you?”
Morgan nodded. “I knew his reputation, of course. I knew he had killed Eli, that anyone working with Coll had to possess twisted morals. A man able to keep the thugs in that gambling den in line had to be cutthroat.” She chuckled. “Even so, when I looked at that face, at that body; when I sat by his side and drank that delicious mead, I found myself enjoying it. I found myself looking forward to the evening.” Her brow twisted. “I assure you, I felt far differently about him when he moved against me in his bedroom.”
“You never should have been put in that position,” growled Roger, his eyes sharpening. “To think that you were in that man’s power, that if we had been only a hair’s breadth late when Oliver called for us to come in …”
“So Oliver knew something was wrong? I wondered what had happened.”
Roger nodded, his face somber. “The second they left the building, Coll started ranting about how you had been his, how Edward had no right to take you for himself, that he had seen how some women had emerged from that bedroom suite. Oliver did not wait one second more. He spun in place, grabbed Coll as a hostage, called for us to join him, and launched an assault on the main door. The guard at the door let us in and the place cleared out.” He glanced over. “You know the rest.” His gaze moved to the bandage on her hand, and his face stilled.
“I am fine, and we achieved our purpose,” pointed out Morgan, patting his arm. “The only reason I was harmed at all is that I fell under Edward’s spell. I should have known better. If I had stayed with Oliver, if I had done what I was told, things would have turned out much differently.”
Roger’s eyes remained hooded, but he nodded slowly. “You and Oliver would have left together, and us five men could have returned at another time, now that we knew where he was and what he looked like.
“Exactly,” agreed Morgan. “It all goes to show how powerful a physical appearance can be. I saw Edward as a charming man, so I put my trust in him. If he had been one-eyed, had a hunch back and a gruesome stare, things would have undoubtedly followed a quite different path.”
“I had a friend with one eye,” commented Roger, nodding. “He lost the other in a fight. He was the sweetest man you ever met – but when we met babies and small children, they would start to cry. I think some of how we react is built into us. Babies are not taught to fear one-eyed people – how could they be taught such a thing? They sense it, innately, that something is wrong.”
“How can you overcome such a feeling, then?” asked Morgan with honest curiosity. “If a draw to a handsome face is so powerful, how can you fight it?”
Roger was silent for a long while, watching the road. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, hesitant.
“When that door to the gambling den swung open, and it was the moment of us five men looking in at what seemed to be a hundred rough, armed, scarred, desperate men, I admit it. I staggered with fear. I looked at those odds, and I thought, this is it. I would be lucky to survive long enough to get you to safety, never mind anything else.”
He glanced over at Morgan. “Then Sean charged in, full tilt, leading with his sword, and there was no question in my mind. I went in at his side. That fear did not leave me – but I acted even with that knowledge. I knew what I had to do, and I set about to do it. Having the fear is natural. Having the draw to a handsome face is natural. How you choose to act is then completely under your own control.”
Morgan chuckled softly. “I chose to go with him into that bedroom, to get the mead, because I thought I could handle it. Next time, I think I will stay by Oliver’s side, and ask Edward to bring the mead out to me.”
“There will be no next time,” vowed Roger with heat. “All of us learned a lesson that night, and you will never be placed in that kind of danger again. We were foolhardy the first time. To do so twice would border on insanity.”
Morgan glanced up, and realized with surprise that they were already approaching the outskirts of Northchapel. The time had flown by quickly while they had talked! Weariness settled over her shoulders. She was ready for a break.
Roger guided them down the quiet lanes until they reached a low cottage with sunflowers growing along the front of the house.
Morgan breathed in deeply as Roger tied her horse to the rail in front of the house. There was the delicious scent of baking bread wafting from the windows. In a moment the door was flung open, and an older, portly woman with white hair came bustling out the door, moving to wrap Roger up in a fond hug.
“Roger, what a surprise! It is wonderful to see you!” she called out, holding back from him. “I had not thought to see you again for a while.” She turned to Morgan, eyeing her with interest. “Who is this with you?”
“Adela, this is Morgan, a dear friend of mine,” he introduced smoothly. “May we come in?”
“Of course!” She guided them into the cheery interior of her home. A bank of ovens lined the back wall, and Morgan could make out several loaves of bread as well as smaller twisted shapes and rolls in the various nooks.
A teenage boy darted into the room, pulling one of the loaves out of an oven, setting it onto the thick wooden table, then g
athering up a basket of small rolls. “I am off to the Smith’s,” he called out, running back out the door again.
Roger smiled. “Business is good?” He moved to sit at the long bench by their main table. Morgan took a seat at his side, looking around with interest.
“Very good, thank you,” agreed Adela, sliding a wooden peel beneath one of the baking loaves, withdrawing the bread from the heat safely on the wooden, flat surface. “It keeps us busy, at least, with Eli’s death and all. It is still so hard to take in.”
Morgan dropped her eyes. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“Did you know my Eli?” asked Adela with curiosity. “I had thought he had a female companion of some sort, but none came to the funeral. It is hard to tell with adult sons. They are so tight lipped. I barely know who my youngest is seeing, and he still lives at home.”
Morgan shook her head. “I am afraid I never had the privilege of meeting your son,” she commented quietly. “I am a friend of Roger’s, and of other members of his troop.”
“This female friend of his,” mused Roger, “did you ever get a sense that he was married to her, or what the situation was?”
Adela shook her head, pouring out three mugs of peppermint tea, setting them out on the table along with a basket of cranberry rolls. “No, he never spoke about her at all,” she admitted quietly, taking a seat. “It was more a mother’s intuition, that is all. Something about the way he would talk, the way he would avoid questions about the future.”
Morgan pursed her lips. There had to be something here, some trail of the relationship. “He kept an apartment in London?”
Adela nodded her head. “Two, in fact. One in London proper, and one on the outskirts of town. It let him get away from the noise and bustle, so he said.”
“Who were his landlords, do you know?” asked Roger with interest.
Adela shrugged. “The apartment in London was rented directly from the barracks commander, I believe. The one on the outskirts … I think he said the man was from Godalming. It struck me as odd that a man from that part of the country would own an apartment near London.”
Morgan glanced at Roger, her face falling. If Edward had owned the apartment which housed Cassandra, then the chance of finding any proper documentation on it was slim to none. Another dead end.
The front door pushed open, and a portly man with thinning hair came rolling into the room. His eyes glanced between his two guests and his mouth grew in a smile. “Roger, welcome!” he called out with pleasure, reaching forward to clasp his hand. His wife moved to put out another mug of peppermint tea for her husband.
“Rudyard, let me introduce Morgan to you,” offered Roger, standing.
The man stilled, his eyes slowly going to Morgan’s, taking in her bruises and bandaged hand. “Morgan, as in the Morgan who killed Edward?” he asked in a slow hush.
Morgan stood, nodding, uncertain of her welcome.
Rudyard strode forward at once, enveloping her in a warm hug, holding her for a long minute. “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. He stood back, then looked again at Roger, his eyes moving between the two, his eyes sharpening with understanding. “I must owe you a thanks as well, then,” he commented, drawing Roger into a hug as well. “It seems you two are acting together on this.”
“Acting together on what?” asked Adela, coming around the table.
“It is nothing, my dear,” muttered the husband, beaming. “Just some loose ends that needed tying up.”
“Does this have to do with Eli’s gambling debt?” asked the woman, her eyes scanning the people before her.
Rudyard’s mouth fell open, and he stared at his wife in surprise. “How did you know about that?”
She shook her head, chuckling. “I have been a wife and mother for over thirty years,” she commented wryly. “I have raised five boys. How you think I would not notice something like that, I will never know.” She looked at Morgan, taking in her bruises for the first time. “So this Edward was responsible for our son’s death?”
Morgan looked at Roger, and he nodded. “Yes,” he agreed quietly, “although he was only the final straw. Someone drove Eli into that debt, and we are trying to track her down.”
The husband sat wearily at the table, shaking his head. “Her, you say. The lad never confided in me,” he admitted quietly. “I knew nothing at all about any woman, and only found out about the debt when it was too late. If he had come to us earlier … but you know how he was. Private, proud.”
“We did our best to keep what happened at the gambling den private,” promised Roger, his eyes serious.
Adela looked at Morgan, her eyes going over the injuries, and her gaze softened. “Please, do not hide the truth from the sheriff in order to shield us,” she soothed. “What you did was a boon to the community. If it helps you at all to get through the aftermath, we are fine to reveal the whole situation.”
“It is the woman we are more interested in tracking down now,” explained Morgan. She looked between the two parents. “Was there anything at all of his that you kept? Even the smallest clue might help.”
Rudyard shook his head, looking down into his tea. “We donated his weapons and his armor to the barracks,” he commented quietly. “There was not much else of note to his name by the time he was killed. Everything had been sold by him.”
His wife looked up, then moved to walk into another room. She returned in a few moments, holding a wooden box between both hands. It had a rose carved onto its lid, and was made of fine black poplar.
“This was Eli’s,” she murmured, her eyes softening. “I got it for him when he left to go to London. It touched me greatly that, with all his troubles, he held on to it.” She set it on the table, lifting open the lid. “It originally held rings, but by the time we got it the box only held a few letters from friends.”
Roger looked at her. “With your permission?” She motioned with her hand, and he drew the box closer, lifting out the letters from the velvet lined interior, reading carefully through them.
Morgan looked through the few small items which remained in the box. They were simple tokens, a speckled quartz rock, a small strip of leather, apparently having symbolic rather than monetary value to Eli.
Roger put the letters down on the table. “There is nothing in any of these,” he sighed in resignation. “They are from a few friends of his, discussing casual matters.”
Morgan looked down in disappointment. She had been so sure that there would be some piece of the puzzle here, something to bolster their evidence.
A thin, white thread stuck up from the edge of the box’s interior, and she tugged at it, her frustration building. There had to be some way to get to Cassandra. The woman was a menace.
She thread jammed, and she gave it a harsh pull. The entire velvet lining came up in her hands, and her face went white with shock.
“I am so sorry,” she apologized at once, guilt overwhelming her. This was the grieving parents’ only memento of their slain son, and she was offhandedly destroying it! She immediately began patting the lining back down into place. “I can fix it, really,” she promised fervently.
“Wait,” called out Roger, looking down intently. She froze, unsure of what new harm she had caused.
He leant forward, pulling back the lining again, running his fingers along the wooden base. He gave a tug, and a folded piece of white paper came out of the box. He slowly, carefully, unfolded it, laying it out for all to see.
Adela stared at it in surprise. “Why, that looks like a marriage contract,” she stated finally.
Morgan stared at the document as if was written with poisonous ink. “Look at the date,” she whispered.
Roger’s face was tight. “It is the same date on Sean’s.”
Rudyard blinked in confusion. “Our son married a woman in a double ceremony, and did not tell us?” he asked, looking between the two guests.
Roger shook his head. “I am afraid poor Eli was taken in by a con artist,” he cou
ntered. “Cassandra has claimed to marry two men on the exact same date. She took your son for all he was worth, and we fear she has now moved on to drain Sean dry as well.”
He looked down at the piece of paper for a long while, eyeing it as if it was a coiled viper.
At last he looked up to the couple. “May we take this with us?”
Adela’s voice was steady. “You will use this to bring her to justice?”
Roger looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “I swear it.”
She put her hands on top of his, then smiled gently. “We will not ask anything further,” she stated. “Sometimes things are best handled subtly. You have already both done more than we could ask for, with Edward’s death. We trust you completely.”
Roger refolded the piece of paper, tucking it into his tunic. He nodded to Morgan, and together they stood.
Roger looked down at the pair. “Your son was a man of honor,” he stated quietly. “He was deceived into believing he bore this responsibility, and he did the best he could to fulfill his obligation.”
Adela came around to give a warm hug to each in turn, then Rudyard did the same.
Adele looked fondly at Roger. “You take care of yourself,” she murmured. “Eli has already been avenged. Do not risk your life in pursuing further justice.”
“We will be careful, do not worry,” promised Roger. “If you could please keep this quiet for a week, it would help us greatly.”
Rudyard nodded. “Of course,” he agreed, his face serious. “Anything you need, we are here to help.”
Morgan glanced at Roger, then spoke up. “Sean is getting married … or should I say remarried … to Cassandra on Monday,” she informed them quietly. “Perhaps you would like to be there?”
Adela held her gaze for a long moment, then she began to smile. “Yes, of course,” she agreed, nodding. “We would not miss it for the world.”
*
Roger and Morgan took the ride back slowly from Eli’s childhood home, but even so Morgan’s injuries blazed into bright life as they traced the miles. Roger stayed close at her side, his well-built frame a steady reassurance. Morgan was aware that Coll was still out there somewhere, perhaps had motives of revenge of his own. She pressed on, walling her gnawing aches into a distant corner of her mind. Her shoulders sagged in exhaustion when they finally pulled into the dusk-tinged courtyard of home.