Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (50 page)

The skin on the back of
Robert’s neck crawled, traveling o’er his scalp. “Nay. But... She
knows.”
Or knew….

“I’m old now, but in my day…. Heed me well,
young warrior knight: Speak the words, and often, else you’ll face
this again another time.”

“Aye, sire, I will.” And he would, as soon
as he was released from this meeting, he would.

The King inhaled, gazing up at the cloudless
blue sky as they continued to amble down the garden path. “Aye,
pleased I am indeed. ‘Twould also do you well to not delay the
telling that you are not the sire of her cousin’s babe.”

“Aye, I had that very thought as well, my
liege.”

“I've a few other matters to discuss with
you, then you are free to seek out your lady.”

Inside, Robert chafed, but he dipped his
head, saying gravely, “Aye, my lord King.”

* * *

“I will not wed with you, Guy de Burgh,”
Morgana hissed not long later as the two swept through the doorway
leading out of the great hall together, after at last finding her
quarry breaking his fast in that chamber. “I am for the nunnery as
soon as I am released to do so by my King.”

“You will ne’er be allowed
to do so now; you are worth too much to the King to be given o’er
to the church.” He sighed. “In any case, I only petitioned for your
hand to vex Robert enough to fight for you.” He stopped walking,
and she stopped as well. “However, if you and he do succeed in
having your marriage contract annulled, then I—as I did before in
the dungeon of this very abbey—humbly give you my troth.” He pulled
in a deep breath and reached for her hand, but evidently thought
better of it when he glanced past her, and seeing others passing
near, dropped his arm back to his side. “Know this: You
will
be bartered off in
marriage, and if you continue in your quest to end the one you have
with Robert, then ‘twill be better for you to wed with me, your
friend, than some other who may only want you for what wealth and
power a connection to your family and the King may bring
him.”

She felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment,
but knew she must speak the truth. Darting a look around her, she
stepped closer to Guy and whispered, “I may be barren—or, at least
unable to bear a babe to childbed. Robert’s babe flushed from
my”—her eyes welled with tears again, her throat closed, but still
she continued—“w-womb n-near to two sennights past. My pardon,” she
said, sniffling and turning her face away. With quivering fingers,
she brushed the tears from her cheeks.

Guy took hold of her hand. “I am sorry for
your loss, dear lady. I did not know.”

She nodded, gulped back another fit of
weeping, and managed to say thickly, “So you see why I do not wish
to wed again.”

“ ‘Tis not uncommon, or so I have heard
told. You will bear again, and well, I am sure.”

“And if I do not? Would you wed a woman who
could not give you an heir?”

“Aye, I would. But only if that woman were
you.”

Morgana lifted her gaze to his and gaped at
him. “You—Are you saying you love me?”

“Aye,”—Morgana’s heart fluttered in
dread—”and nay. I will not deny the deep affection I hold for you,
but nay, ‘tis not the passionate love of which I believe you are
speaking.”

Morgana nodded, dropping her gaze to their
twined hands, before slipping hers from his grasp and stepping
back.

There was a long, weighted pause, as if Guy
was battling a decision to tell her something, before he said at
last, “You asked me before about Vika. She was not at your holding
when I arrived to o’ersee the dousing of the fires set by your
uncle’s men.”

Morgana’s head jerked up.

“I was told by your mo—maid that she left
the same morn as you, with her lover—the father of her unborn
babe—a man by the name of Grímr Thorfinnsson, and that Robert was
made aware of this before she left.”

“Grímr? Grímr is her babe’s father? Bu-But
she said….” Morgana whirled and took several steps, then swung back
around. “Aye, I believe it! The way the two of them behaved
together. ‘Twas plain they were attracted. And he arrived at our
holding only a sennight past Vika’s own arrival. He must have been
hunting her! Oh, aye. Oh, aye.” She rushed over to Guy and gripped
his hands in hers. “Do you know what this means?” she said, looking
glowingly into Guy’s dark-fringed blue eyes. “It means that Robert
does not pine for Vika!”

“Aye, that is what it means, my dear lady.
Tho’ I did not think it best these tidings should come from me, but
from your husband. Still, if I have lightened your heart with this
knowledge, then I am well pleased in doing so.”

Morgana’s jaw tightened.
“Aye. My husband should have told me.” Again, she whirled around
and stormed several paces away, saying, “
Why did he not?
Truly, I cannot ken
it.”

“My dear lady,” Guy began
in a gently chiding voice, “he has been otherwise occupied with
the—and I’m sure you will agree with this—
much
more urgent need to
save your life
.”

She hurrumphed. Crossing
her arms, she said, “Aye, but ‘tis his stubborn silence
after
that which irks me
so.”

Guy took a step toward her. “Mayhap….” He
took another step. “Mayhap, he only wanted to wait until all was
settled, until he could relax his guard on you and enjoy your time
together without worry or dread.”

Morgana dipped her head and bit her lip.
“Well, why did he not say thus?” She swung back around. “I must
halt this annulment!” Her eyes went wide and she beamed a grin
Guy’s direction. “And I know just how to do it! Come,” she said,
turning and striding with purpose toward the chapel. I’ll need your
aid, and we have much to plan.”

* * *

As Robert rushed toward
the other doorway that led to the stairs, on his way to Morgana’s
chamber, passing visitors and courtiers taking their meals at
trestle tables in the great hall while he went, he was intercepted
by a messenger holding a small scroll of vellum tied with a blue
silk riband. Robert thanked him and unfurled the missive.
Instantly, the familiar fresh floral scent of
her,
of Morgana, invaded his being,
and his blood rushed. Quickly, he scanned the words.
Meet me in the chapel in a
half-hour
, it read. Aye, ‘twas Morgana’s
signature, Morgana’s seal. His heart danced. Mayhap she, too,
regretted so rashly breaking ties. In which case, ‘twould make
their reconciliation all the more simple.

The weight of worry lifted, he strode out
the doors and went in the direction of the chapel.

‘Twas not until he’d knelt in prayer that it
struck him what had transpired after the last time he’d met her
thus, and his hopes soared all the more. It also gave him an idea
for how best to convince her to take him back as husband. And with
that thought came a rare grin. Aye, before the sun was set, they’d
again be where they belonged—together, and in bed.

* * *

“All is in readiness, you are certain?”
Morgana asked as she stepped into the corridor and closed the door
to her chamber behind her. She’d been granted leave by the King to
remove from her chamber, as long as a guard gave her escort, but
she could truly see no reason for such continued care. Donnach was
not at court, and the men who’d worked for him were no longer a
danger to her.

“Aye, my lady,” one of Guy’s men-at-arms
responded.

“My thanks. And the others? They are within
the chapel already?”

“Aye, my lady, they are.”

“And your liege lord? He is awaiting us near
the cart?”

“Aye, he is, my lady. I only just left him
there to come for you.”

“No need to escort me, I prefer to meet my
husband alone.”

“Please, my lady, I must take you as far as
the chapel door, at least, else I am sure to be punished severely
by my lord.”

“Very well,” Morgana said with vexed
resignation.

They’d gone no more than ten steps down the
curving stairway, when several men, masked in black cloth, and
bearing daggers and short swords, o’ertook them from behind and
front.

“Nay!” she cried, twisting and kicking in a
fruitless effort to free herself from the steel embrace of the one
who’d captured her. She let out a blood-curdling scream, but before
more than a note or two had been lifted into the air, a
leather-gloved hand closed o’er her mouth and nose, stifling it,
and cutting off her wind.

Guy’s man-at-arms fought valiantly the blows
and attempted blows of his assailants, and at one point, just
before Morgana lost consciousness, he managed to use one of them as
a shield, and the man was impaled on his own comrade’s sword. After
that, all faded to black.

* * *

From just outside the heavy wooden doors of
the chapel, came a violent commotion of sound and fury. Robert
jerked around, leapt to his feet, ran toward the fray with sword at
the ready, blood pounding in his veins. If the abbey was under
attack, it meant a war against the King. He had to find Morgana,
get her to safety.

He was a scant yard from the entry when one
of the doors flew open and a guard, wearing the de Burgh colors and
with newly-let blood staining the front of his tunic, fell through
the opening and landed face-down on the stone floor, leaving a
freshly-slain hooded soldier in plain garb and bearing no
cognizance sprawled on the ground behind him.

Robert rushed to kneel beside him, turning
him o’er onto his back as he did so. The man’s face was battered
and bruised, his eyes, tho’ glazed, were open and his lips, split
and swollen, moved as if he spoke, but Robert heard no words coming
forth. He leaned down so that his ear was only a breath away from
the man’s mouth.

“Your lady,
Morgana...attack...stair...taken...could...not...ss...ssstop….” The
last trailed off as the man’s eyes closed and his head rolled to
the side.

Donnach!
‘Twas Donnach. Robert seethed. He should have
been more insistent with the King this morn. He should have gone in
pursuit of Donnach himself, instead of allowing others to do the
deed, for he would
not
have failed. Robert quickly checked the guard’s pulse and
found none, then sprang to his feet ready to rush to the stables to
go in chase of Morgana and her captors before the trail grew cold.
When he looked up, three more of Guy’s men stood before him, but
within the chapel, not near the door. Fleetingly, he wondered how
they’d gotten there, but said instead, “He is dead, and my lady
Morgana has been captured. Where is your lord?”

“In the courtya—”

“—I am here,” Guy said, lungs heaving. His
gaze dipped to his slain man-at-arms, and he swiftly, yet somberly,
made the sign of the cross. Using his hand to leverage his weight
against the door for balance as he caught his breath, he spoke,
saying, “I know in which direction they are headed. Hurry, we must
fly!”

* * *

When Morgana began to revive, she thought
‘twas night. ‘Twas only when she attempted to open her eyes, and
realized a blind had been secured o’er them, that she knew it had
not been so long since her capture on the stairs. For a fleet
moment, hope sprang in her heart that ‘twas Robert turning her own
plan for him ‘round about on her, but when she heard the
all-too-familiar, all-too-distressing voice of her uncle, she knew
her fate had turned utterly grim.

Where does he take
me?
she thought, and on the tail of
that:
Why did he not simply kill me, as
had been his plan?
For some reason, the
fact that he had not done so produced an even denser, more painful,
burning knot of dread in her gut.

For several long hours more, Morgana lay
bound and blind on the hard bed of the wooden cart, as it bumped
and creaked along an unknown path. Finally, she felt the cart
shift, as if climbing higher, and she thought they might be on a
mountain path. Could her uncle be taking her to that same hunter’s
cot where he’d found her and Robert this winter past? The same cot
where she’d planned only this morn for a privy—and amorous—renewal
of her and Robert’s bonds?

But for what purpose would
her uncle sequester her there? Again, her gut clenched with the
fire of dread. What could be her uncle’s plan? Was she a lure for
her husband? Her
father?
What e’er it might be, she’d not make it easy for
him to accomplish. If she could, and she prayed heartily she could,
she would thwart him.
But how?

The cart came to a lurching stop, and
Morgana rolled with great force, the weight of her movement casting
her onto her face, jamming her nose and making it sting and throb,
making her eyes water with tears.

* * *

Robert ripped the vellum sheet and ice-blue
riband from the nail that attached it to the tree and, his hand
trembling with repressed anger, the snorting and shifting of the
score of men’s horses behind him a vague backdrop, scanned the
script as he held the silk strand to his nose. As he’d feared, it
held the scent of Morgana’s tresses.

If you are reading this, you are on the
wrong path, just as I had planned. Bring to me my half-brother at
the place we two first met, and I will forfeit your bride. Else, I
shall see you in hell.

There was no salutation,
no signature, no seal, yet the tremor in his gut told him he was
not in error. The missive was meant for him, and Donnach Cambel was
its author.
...the place we two first
met...
The hunter’s cot!
Nithing! Caitiff!
He
would play Robert’s weakness against him.