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

by Shea,Lisa

  A new song began playing, a gentle love song, and Sean put out his hand. She glanced up at him, warmed by his look, then took his hand, standing slowly to move with him to the floor. He wrapped his arms around her, and she moved with him, other couples joining them in the shadowy dance. His feet moved surely along hers, and it was almost as when they had sparred, the give and take, the forward and back. She smiled with pleasure, looking up at him, and his eyes were on her, serious.

  “Would you miss dancing with Peter?” he asked softly, giving her a gentle whirl around in a circle.

  “If I could dance with you every night?” She folded herself against Sean, relished his strength against her, his solid chest, his strong arms. “I would not miss him,” she whispered quietly, allowing herself to be swept away by the music, by his lead, by the enveloping darkness.

  He moved closer in to her, pulling her against him, and she found herself sliding her hand along his hip, drawing her arms behind his back, bringing her head up to gaze at his, her lips parting. Her breath came in long draws.

  He met her gaze, his eyes becoming smoky. He turned abruptly, drawing her from the floor, toward the back hall, down to one of the doors. He removed a key from his pouch and worked on the lock for a short moment before pushing open the door to the room.

  Morgan rolled around him, pulling him in with her, and he kicked the door shut with his heel as she pressed up hard against him, drew him into a long kiss. After a while she pulled back for a moment, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “So, is this your room, or mine?” she asked in a low chuckle.

  He ran a hand along the side of her neck, and she sighed deeply, moving in against him again.

  “It is mine,” he offered in a low growl, sweeping his eyes down her form with heat.

  “It is about time I saw one of your rooms,” she teased him. A thought occurred to her, and she went stiff suddenly. His eyes flew to hers.

  “Cassandra said she had been in your room,” Morgan ground out, her eyes flashing with jealousy.

  A wide smile grew across Sean’s face, and he shook his head. “God’s teeth, Morgan, I have had to watch you caressed by Oliver, kissed by Christian, and you are upset about my wife being in my room?”

  “She is not your wife,” snarled Morgan, her face flushing with heat.

  “Right, right,” soothed Sean, gazing down at her. He held her look for a long moment. “You are so proud of your independence, your freedom to be with who you choose. And yet the thought of me touching any other women drives you into a jealous rage.”

  “I should be more than enough for you,” growled Morgan, drawing him back toward the bed.

  He moved with her slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “You did not seem to mind when Christian began spending time with Letitia -”

  “Christian,” she snapped dismissively, her eyes glowing with heat as she sat back against the bed. “Christian is a puppy dog, and I wish him all the joy he can find.”

  He moved down against her, pressing his body against her length, and his eyes grew smoky as he brought his lips close to hers.

  “So you will not miss his kisses?” he asked in a hoarse murmur.

  “God’s teeth, stop tormenting me,” she moaned in agony, and he was on her, kissing her, their hands on each other, their clothes falling aside like leaves in a whirlwind. She found herself soaring, crying out. At last she fell back onto the bed in exhaustion, sprawling across his chest, her breath finally beginning to slow.

  “Now you have been in my bed,” commented Sean in a low voice, leaning up on one arm to look down at her. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “When we return to the keep, you can help me inaugurate my bed there as well.”

  Morgan’s eyes sharpened. “So Christian was right? You and Cassandra did not -”

  He shook his head, his eyes serious. “She was only in my room once, when she said she needed to talk about Daniel in private. Our relationship was quite platonic.” He looked down tenderly at her. “I told her it would be improper for anything further while we were getting to know each other again, after all those years.”

  “Improper?” asked Morgan, running a hand gently down his chest.

  He shuddered, drawing her in. “I was consumed by you,” he admitted in a low voice. “My every thought was for you. I could not feel her hand on my arm without wishing it was yours.

  “And now you have me,” smiled Morgan, rolling up against him, her lips seeking his.

  He gave a low growl, and in a moment she was pulled hard into his embrace, and they were in motion again, sliding, rising, soaring.

  Chapter 21

  Morgan glanced over alertly at Sean as he crested the small rise, pulled hard on his reins, froze in rigid attention. She swept her eyes across the scene, then brought them back to him for a moment. He had not said anything during their morning ride, and she had watched as the tension slowly took ahold of him. It was fully there now, visible in every muscle, every angular movement of his head.

  She looked back down on the peaceful tableau. Beneath them the road ran down a long, grassy slope, wending amongst small hillocks and dips to arrive, a few miles hence, at a collection of run-down buildings lining the ocean. She could spot a few colorful fishing boats bobbing like corks in the waves. Most of the homes seemed to be small cottages or shanties, but there were larger buildings in the center of the group, at what passed for the town common.

  She waited patiently, allowing Sean to come to terms with his past on his own time. It was a long minute before he shook his head, nudged his horse, and they headed down the incline. She wondered just what it had been like for the young soldier Sean to arrive here, to find his dream-girl pearl inside this grimy oyster. Had he concocted visions of rescuing her from the life, of caring for her the way she deserved?

  A small roadside shrine greeted them on the right as they began to approach the outskirts of the village, and Sean pulled up again, looking at it with solemn eyes. It was of simple wooden construction, with a carved image within, faded beyond recognition by wind and rain. Finally he blinked and spoke without turning.

  “This is where I first saw her,” he ground out. “She stood here, waiting to greet us as we rode down. I still remember what she wore, a white dress with blue flowers embroidered on it.” He pursed his lips, then moved on.

  Morgan wondered at herself – should she be feeling jealous? She searched her heart, but could find no such concerns lurking within her. Instead, she felt sorry for the young man he once was, for the pain he had gone through, for the trap he had become ensnared in now.

  She turned her head back to the small wooden shrine, tenuous feelings of pity going out to Cassandra. Growing up in this run-down environment could not have been easy on her. The girl had seen her one chance at a better life ride down the hill toward her, and was it so bad that she had tried to grab at it? Cassandra had dallied with three of the soldiers; surely many girls in other villages had done the same.

  Morgan brought her eyes forward again. She would learn the truth, here, of what Cassandra was like when growing up. That would help her determine if the malicious, using nature of the woman had been a sad consequence of the soldiers abandoning her, forcing into a marriage not of her choosing, sending her into an early widowhood. Perhaps Cassandra would have been a much better person if that sequence of events had not happened.

  It seemed to Morgan that most of the town was out fishing, or perhaps in their homes, for the streets were deserted as they pulled up outside the quiet church, dismounted, tied up their horses. She stayed a step behind Sean as he brushed down his outfit, then pushed forward the simple wooden door into the small structure.

  Five small pews on each side made up the whole of the cozy church. The altar area itself was compact but neat. A youthful man in black stood to one side of the front, polishing a pair of candlesticks with a cheerful smile. He turned with the door’s opening, then put down his items and came over with open arms.

  “Strangers!
Greeting! You are always welcome in my church. I am Father Bonner. How may I help you?”

  Sean’s question burst out with abrupt sharpness. “Do you know a woman named Cassandra, just under thirty years old, who grew up here?”

  Morgan flushed at Sean’s tone, but said nothing. This was his history to work out; he had a right to do it in his own manner.

  The priest’s smile did not falter. “No, I am sorry, I believe you refer to the innkeeper’s widow, who left about five years ago? That was before I joined this church. The previous priest passed away two years ago, and I came from Portsmouth to take over his duties.”

  “Do you have a register of births and marriages?” continued Sean, his voice tight.

  Father Bonner nodded. “Yes, certainly. Come with me, please.”

  He brought the pair over to an alcove off the left side of the altar. The small room sported a wooden table, simple stool, and a shelf with several codices and scrolls on it. He selected one of the codices, laying it out before them. “Is there a certain date you are looking for?”

  “August fifteenth, 1200,” recited Sean without pause.

  Father Bonner carefully turned the pages, finding the appropriate date range. He squinted his eyes, then shook his head. “Are you sure about that? I have nothing here for that date,” he commented wryly.

  Sean took in a deep breath, then let it out. “That is good, that is very good,” he murmured. He looked up to Father Bonner. “When did she marry the innkeeper?”

  “Why, here it is, on this same page,” pointed out the priest. “She married Joseph on October second of the same year.”

  “They had a child, born soon afterwards,” prodded Sean.

  Father Bonner flipped to the next page. “Ah yes, Daniel. He was born on April thirteenth, 1201.”

  “Only six months after the marriage,” mused Sean, his eyes sharp on the page.

  Father Bonner blushed, looking down at the book. “Well, yes, many marriages and births seem to work out that way,” he agreed. “As long as the wedding vow takes place before the child is born, the offspring is held as legitimate.”

  Sean mused for a long moment, then reached into his pouch for a coin. “Would you be able to write up a letter for me, certifying the dates of Cassandra’s wedding and her son’s birth – and also the fact that no other marriages are listed for her in 1200?” He placed the coin down on the worn table. “I will gladly offer this donation to your church, in thanks for your time.”

  Father Bonner’s eyes lit up with interest. “I sense a mystery here,” he commented quietly, “but I will not intrude. Certainly, I would be happy to comply. Please give me a while to work on this for you – perhaps an hour? There is a pub in town, or the walk along the ocean can be quite lovely this time of year.”

  “Thank you,” offered Sean, turning on his heel. He strode back out of the church, only coming to a tense stop as they neared their horses again.

  His voice was bitter when he spoke. “That we have come all this way for nothing,” he ground out in a low voice.

  Morgan glanced up at him. “Not for nothing,” she reminded him quietly, seeing the tension held sharply in his shoulders, the tightness of his mouth. “We will have proof, now, that those contracts are invalid. That is certainly important.”

  He shook his head, looking down the dusty street toward the roaring ocean. “I needed to know -” he growled, then bit off the rest.

  Morgan reached a hand out to take his, then held back. He was so full of emotion right now, it was as if she could see him vibrating. She realized that he wanted to know the same things she did. Had Cassandra truly been this way even when he had courted her, so many years ago? Had he been responsible for her transformation into the cold-blooded woman she was now?

  “The pub is just down the street,” she suggested finally, and began walking. “I do not know about you, but I could use a drink.”

  Sean moved alongside her, his face surly. They moved past a run-down inn, the shutters hanging askew from rotting windows. Morgan wondered if another innkeep had taken over the duties here, and was neglecting them, or if the structure was simply being allowed to collapse into itself.

  Sean pushed open the roughly hewn door of the bar, pausing a moment. Morgan let her eyes adjust to the dark as well, then stepped in. There were five empty tables scattered around the quiet interior of the room; only two barstools were taken up by thin, well-worn men. She guessed them to be about Sean’s age, but much more leathered and wrinkled. The barkeep was in his fifties, with graying hair and sharp eyes.

  Sean’s voice was rough. “You three. Did you know Cassandra?”

  Three pairs of eyes looked at him, unblinking, no response altering their faces. Sean muttered a low oath, then flung himself into a chair facing the window, staring morosely at the street.

  Morgan gazed after him for a long moment, her heart going out to his pain. Then, taking in a deep breath, she drew a bright smile on her face. There was one way she could help him, at least. She could see what this trio of men really knew.

  She walked slowly up to the bar, taking a seat beside the two customers, leaning over to confide in them in a low voice. “Never you mind my brother,” she whispered with a grin. “He has been on the road for many days and it plays with his temper something fierce.” She smiled up to the barkeep, giving him her most welcoming gaze. “I would like a double mead, please.”

  The barkeep nodded noncommittally, turning to pour the mug from a large pottery jug. He placed the mug before her, and she laid her pouch of coins on the table, making a rolling motion with her good hand. His eyebrows raised, and he leant back against the wall behind him, his face showing a hint of interest.

  “You will want more than that?” he asked after a moment.

  “Well, let us see what it tastes like, first,” she chuckled in a low voice.

  She picked up the mug, gave it a gentle sniff, then took a sip. She suddenly paused, holding the mug to her lips. This was good. She drank a little more. It was not just good, it was deliciously complex. She downed the rest of the mug in one long pull, the aches in her wounded hand draining away, chuckling as the men’s eyes widened.

  “Do you make this here?” she asked the barkeep, holding the mug out to him.

  “Yes,” he agreed, turning to pour her another serving, setting it down before her. “Why? What did you think?”

  “That has got to be some of the best mead I have ever drunk,” praised Morgan with full honesty. “The honey – do you cull it from near the ocean? Does that give it its salty flavor?”

  “Yes, exactly,” confirmed the barkeep, leaning forward slightly. “I have tried hives from different areas around our village, and this comes from a hollow only a few feet from the water. Can you taste the difference?”

  “Oh, yes, very much,” she nodded, taking another sip. “And the flavoring you use – raspberry? It has to be something unusual, to get this type of lush flavor.”

  “You are good at this!” praised the barkeep. “Yes, we find the smallest of raspberries in the cliffs along the beach, and they are the most potent.”

  Morgan took another pull, swishing the liquid around in her mouth. “I bet you a lot of people do not appreciate the complexity of what you offer,” she commented in a low voice.

  One of the regulars leant over. “You are right about that!” he chimed in. “They can barely drink it. They do not know what they are missing!”

  “All the better for you,” Morgan smiled, nudging him in the ribs. “You must have to make this in small batches, given the scarcity of your ingredients. All the better you keep it your little secret!” She looked over at the customers by her side. “So you both are fans?”

  The two men nodded eagerly. The second brushed back the wispy red hair falling across his eyes. “We have it whenever we can afford it.”

  “Well then,” toasted Morgan, “A round of drinks for my new friends. We will celebrate my lucky find today!”

  The men
bubbled over with thanks, and three new mugs were laid out. The barkeep refilled Morgan’s mug, then poured the liquid for himself and his two friends. They clinked their mugs, then drank down the mead.

  “Oh, that is just so good,” praised Morgan, looking at her mug. “My name is Morgan,” she added with a smile.

  The barkeep nodded to her. “I am Thomas,” he responded. “These here are Rip and Mike. Their boat is being repaired, otherwise they would be out on the ocean with the rest.”

  Morgan shook her head. “You know, I do not think most people appreciate how much work fishermen do every day,” she confided to them. “You are out there in freezing rain, in rough seas, and when you are done you cannot even afford a mug of mead at the end of each day to warm back up with. Those landlubbers must think their fish just appear by fairy magic.”

  Rip ran a skeletal hand through his dark hair. “Tell me about it,” he groused. “I have more scars on me than a rutting stag, and still it is a struggle to make ends meet.

  “It takes a certain kind of strength to survive down here,” nodded Morgan. “You two have that, I can see it. I imagine some are born without that inner grit, who just cannot make it in this rough environment.”

  Mike grinned. “Oh, that is for sure,” he agreed, his eyes sparkling, draining his mug.

  Morgan made a circling motion with her hand, and the barkeep refilled all four mugs. She held hers up for a toast again. “To strength,” she called out with a smile. The men echoed her call, and they drank down the liquid. She gave Rip a nudge, practically feeling his ribs within his rail-thin frame. He nudged her back playfully, a smile growing on his lips.

  “So is the inn still in operation?” she asked with casual interest. “I could not tell when I went past it.”

  Rip shook his head. “No, poor Joseph died about five years back. His widow left immediately afterwards, and it has just been falling apart since then.”

  “She was not cut out for this town, eh?” asked Morgan, swirling her drink.