Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (36 page)

Sometime in the midst of the panic, Robert
had poured a bit of wine into a cup for her. Clearly, he’d been
frantic, for the red color stained the front of his tunic and
dripped off the back of his hand as he gave it to her, saying,
“Drink. ‘Twill calm you.”

The wine did calm her and
after a moment she placed the empty cup on the table next to the
bed. As she did so, he said, “I had hoped, mayhap, that the return
of your voice this night past, the memory of what happened, was
some proof that you were healing, but I see now, that ‘twas not the
case. We’ll not speak of it again.” He reached out and patted her
hand rather awkwardly and Morgana once again worried that he’d
ne’er touch her with passion or tender regard again.
He says it not, but he thinks it.
She was more a bane than a boon to him, with her
strange spells of memory or madness, and no voice.

He rose from the bed and walked over to gaze
out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He stood
there, silent, for such long moments, that Morgana began to wonder
if he was through speaking with her and was now making mental plans
for the remainder of his day.

After another fretful moment, she began to
rise, thinking she’d wash and dress, break her fast. What e’er she
did, however, ‘twould not include ruminating more on what Robert
had revealed to her earlier. If she was to stay in control of her
mind, of her senses, and not be a burden to her husband, she had to
keep those visions well at bay.

She had only taken a step or two toward the
washstand when Robert turned to her and said, “You need your rest,
Morgana. I’ll have someone bring fresh water for you to bathe, as
well as something to break your fast. Get back in bed.”

She truly did not want to do so, but she
could not bring herself to defy her husband either, so, like the
good convent-bred lass she was, she quietly climbed back onto the
mattress and tucked the linen sheet and blanket around her.

She thought surely he’d leave her now, but
instead he came and sat on the edge of the bed next to her once
more.

He took her hand and stared down at it for a
long moment, then lifted his gaze to her face. He looked at her so
long without saying anything that if Morgana had had the ability,
she would have begun to speak in nervous chatter just to break the
heavy silence between them.

Finally, he said, “Other than this night
past, you’ve rested well? Had no troubles sleeping?”

Her brows drew together in confusion, but
she shook her head in agreement.

“But you did have some trouble, as I recall,
two nights past.”

The memory of how cheerfully hopeful her
world had been that night, with their babe still snug in her womb,
flashed in her mind, but in the next second, anguish pierced her
heart and was released through her tear ducts. Swallowing past the
lump in her throat, she managed to nod her head.

Robert looked away. After a moment, he
cleared his throat and said, “I believe, that night, you used a bit
of the sleeping draught given you?”

Her brows drew together,
but she nodded.
Why is he asking me
this?
She sat up, tucking the pillow
behind her back, but the doom settled in her breast, for she feared
she knew.

“And, I believe, ‘twas that next day that
you were not feeling well.”

She couldn’t
breathe.
He blames me! He thinks I killed
our babe. Mayhap I did! Mayhap I did! I should not have taken the
draught!
She twisted her fists into the
sheet. The room spun.

“Morgana!” he said, grasping her forearms,
“You’ve lost all color.”

He fled to the washstand and brought back a
cup of cool water, which he forced her to drink, tho’ it choked
her. She began to cough and rolled to her side, facing away from
him. She felt the warmth of his hand hover o’er her arm, but not
alight upon it, before it fell away again.

“I’ll call for Wife Deirdre. My pardon. I-I
should not have bothered you with such foolish talk.” He pressed
his lips to her arm and murmured against it. “Rest. You must rest.
My pardon.” Then he left her, went out the door, and in a few long
moments, Wife Deirdre took his place on the edge of the bed beside
her.

God, why do you do this to
me? Am I not to be allowed even a small portion of joy?
She turned her face into the pillow and
wept.

* * *

Robert leaned into the table top in the
great hall, bent at the waist, and put his weight on his knuckles.
He was still finding it hard to take in a good breath. He’d held
such hope this morn that he’d at last hear his wife speak, that
she’d somehow been healed, and could begin to heal more quickly
from the loss of their babe as well. But, ‘twas e’er more clear now
than it had been before that she was not near to that place yet.
Furthermore, there were still unanswered questions, and so he’d
tried to garner some further clue that she might be able to impart,
even in her innocence, even in her ignorance of all that had been
planned against her.

Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his
teeth, he growled low in his throat. He should not have mentioned
the sleeping draught to her, he could see that now. It only made
her feel worse about their loss. Why had he not kenned before he
opened his gob that ‘twould seem to her that he was blaming her for
taking the sleeping draught?

But, the only way he could see to convince
her otherwise, was to reveal the death plot to her, and truly, he
did not see that she was strong enough in mind to deal with the
fright ‘twould cause her. Not to mention, the blow of learning that
her mother and father still lived. What if her mind could not take
such a shock, even if the revelation was a pleasant one? Her state
was fragile, and he must not forget again. ‘Twas best to protect
her, keep her safe and quiet, and allow her the rest she
needed.

* * *

Morgunn stood beside the tinker’s cart he’d
gotten off the gnarled man in the next shire using the coin Robert
had given him, and gladly took the ladle of water proffered by the
old cook. As he drank most of it down, he watched her pick through
his store of wares, listening only vaguely to her carping tongue as
she curled a lip at one, put it aside, shook her head at another,
put it aside, then rattled and knocked her knuckles against
another, before turning to him with a nod and saying, “Ah’ll take
this wun. Coom wit’ me, and ah’ll fayd and ply yow wit’ some of me
best ale while I git yow th’ pan tha’ naids a new ‘andle.”

“I’ll be grateful fer a place ta lay m’
head, as well,” he said, turning his cap in his hand and keeping
his head bent as he walked a bit behind her, “if ya c’n find i’ in
yer heart, Cook.”

“Aye, thar’s plentee of ruum for yow and
yowr cart in th’ stables, if yow don’ moind a bed o’ hay.”

“Tha’ be very generous, Cook. M’thanks.”

As he, his wife, and his son-in-law had
decided in the small hours of the night before, he had breached the
holding by disguising himself as a traveling mender and seller of
tin pots and pans, using this vantage as a means of wandering the
interior of the fortress, specifically looking for Donnach’s
accomplices, since Gwynlyan had ne’er been exposed to all of
Donnach’s fighting men, specifically the mercenary soldiers he kept
in his service, in the years prior to the ambush.

Over the last moons, he’d allowed his beard
to grow, tho’ he’d continued to keep his hair cropped short.
However, with this new disguise, it now held snarls and knots, and
was dusted with ash as well. The tattered clothes he wore, and the
patch o’er his left eye were left for him at the burn by
Gwynlyan.

It had taken him near to all of the day to
travel to the next shire, make the purchase, and travel back here
before sunset, but he’d managed it—barely—and was now well
entrenched behind the fortress walls, and well placed as well to
scout the premises for the whoresons behind the death plot on his
family.

* * *

Morgana pushed herself up to a sitting
position in bed, using her knuckles to lift and reposition herself
so that the pillows pressed comfortably into the small of her back,
and watched with pounding pulse Robert before the fire, shed first
his boots, then his tunic and shirt, then his braies and hose.

In the darkened chamber,
the flames of the hearthfire licked orange and gold light o’er his
skin, bronzing his well-thewn naked form, like a statue of some
ancient god, and Morgana’s lungs seized. Lord, she did not want to
give him up.
Please. Please love me.
Forgive me.

Her gaze ne’er left him as
he came to his side of the bed, flipped back the covering, lay
down, propped himself on an elbow, curled his large, calloused hand
around the back of her head, pressed it forward, placed a chaste,
indifferent kiss on her forehead, said “G’night,” rolled over with
his back to her,
again
, punched the pillow a few times, then lay his head upon it
and, she assumed, went directly to sleep.

Even tho’ the healer had said she should
wait at least another sennight more to do so, Morgana, tho’ her
heart was still torn in two, felt that her body was well enough to
take him into her. If he still wanted her. And that, she was
determined to discover this very night. So, instead of curling on
her side and weeping out her sorrow as she’d done the last two
nights, Morgana pressed her naked form to his, kissed his shoulder,
stroked her hand o’er his chest, down his taught abdomen, lightly
ran her nails through the springy hair of his groin. She felt his
muscles tense, heard him rasp in a breath, and knew that he was
fully awake to her brazen caresses. Hope and fear surged inside
her, for ‘twas more she needed from him than his body’s initial
response. She needed his heart, his mind, as well. Bold with
purpose and need, she brushed her palm o’er his raging manhood and
he flung her hand away as if burned.

If that weren’t torment enough—and answer,
as well—he heaved himself from their bed, stood glaring at her with
fists clenched at his sides, tendons drawn along his arms and
chest. But only long enough to suck two heaving breaths into his
lungs before he stormed over to his clothing, grabbed them up, and
strode out the door.

Where had he gone? Would he relieve his
desire with another?

With Vika?

* * *

Early the next morn, Vika rushed to catch up
to Robert, for, she was determined, she would release him this very
day from the lie she’d given. Grímr was right, and keeping it a
secret, especially after Robert and Morgana’s loss, seemed more
cruel now, than it had at the time she’d originally given it.

Oh, aye, ‘twould possibly be yet another sad
blow for him to find he’d not sired her babe, but it seemed crueler
still to have him find out later, after he’d had even more time to
plan for its arrival, for its life.

So, she’d not wait a moment longer to
release him from his sworn duties to her and her babe. She had
little doubt that he’d draw the truth of its true begetter from her
as well, but as Grímr had yet again found her trace, discovered her
here, and as he’d only force her to comply with her promise to
reveal the truth upon his return of the fact that ‘twas his seed,
and not Robert’s which had taken root in her, she had decided she’d
rather it be without Grímr’s arrogant, intrusive presence hovering
o’er her as she did so.

She was near enough now to call his name
where he might hear it, and she did so. When he stopped and turned,
gave her a quizzical look, but waited, she quickened her step and
held out her hand to him. As he took hold of it, she said, “Robert,
I could not let another day pass without telling you how sorrowful
I am for the loss you and my poor cousin have borne.”

The somewhat stiff smile he’d given her upon
seeing her, froze in place as she watched a shadow cross his
countenance, saw his eyes grow moist before he blinked and looked
away.

“My thanks,” he said finally and returned
his gaze to hers.

Unable to look him in the
eye, she dropped her own gaze to the center of his chest. “I...I
must tell you something….”
‘Twill no doubt
be a relief to learn….
Nay
. ‘Tis, mayhap, a balm to
your….
Nay.
I
hope you will not….
Nay. Best not to
relinquish power.
You are not….
Aye. That would do
.
Tho’ twas a bit too brief, ‘twas
also to the point.
She opened her mouth,
but when she noted the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of
worry around his eye and mouth, the words lodged in her throat.
Nay, she could not do it.

* * *

After a restless, lonely night spent in
worry, rather than sleep, Morgana stood by her window and gazed
down at the courtyard below.

“Ye et no’ one whit o’ th’ meat yer husban’
had sen’ oop jes’ fer ye this morn, m’lady,” Wife Deirdre chastened
in a gentle, but firm tone from somewhere behind her. “D’ye ‘ave a
bad stomach agin?

Morgana glanced around and, finding Wife
Deirdre’s worried gaze leveled on her, shook her head and forced a
small smile on her lips before turning back to her musings, back to
looking for any sign of Robert from the window where she stood.

After a moment, Wife Deirdre, evidently
deciding that she’d not have success with any further urging on her
part in getting Morgana to eat more, nodded, gave a brief sigh,
picked up the tray, and took it back down to the kitchens, leaving
Morgana gratefully alone with her thoughts.

Finally, after what seemed
to the fretting and despondent Morgana to be much too long a time,
she at last saw Robert crossing the courtyard toward the outer
bailey, where the work was still proceeding on the furbishing. With
a sigh, and a piercing spike of joy in her breast, she lifted her
palm to the pane and leaned against it, enjoying the sight of him:
The long, purposeful strides; the powerful, broad shoulders; the
large, calloused hands, the proud jut of his strong jaw.
Robert.
Her heart pined
for him so.
If only….
Again, and for at least the hundredth time since she’d lost
her babe, she pressed her palm to her barren belly and a soft
whimper escaped her throat. She didn’t hear it, however, for her
eyes were blurred with tears and her tortured thoughts were on
naught else but the remembered pain of his rejection the night
before.