Morgan the Rogue (45 page)

             
'How can they change if you refuse to surrender?'

             
'Then I shall pray that you will find happiness, Rosamund.  I have loved you with all my heart and I beg you to forgive me for the harm I have brought you.'

             
Rosamund had turned away to stare out of the window.  She felt as if her heart was breaking as she struggled to find the words – words that might heal the breach between them.  It was difficult to begin for she knew that she had let things drift too long.

             
'Morgan, I…'

             
She turned and saw that she was addressing an empty room.  For a moment she was stunned, devastated, and then she realised that there was no point in trying to stop him leaving.  It was too late.  The harm had been done and she could see no way to heal it for Morgan would not surrender no matter how she begged him.  His duty and his loyalty was given to Owain, and while Owain remained a fugitive Morgan would stay with him.

             
What of her life and that of her daughters?  Rosamund fought the misery building inside her.  For the moment the hurt was too deep to think at all, but one day soon she would have to decide.

Morganna was gathering berries and wild herbs by the stream when she saw the horse and rider.  From the way he rode hunched over his horse the man looked utterly weary, almost defeated, and it was not until he came close that she began to suspect it might be her father.  It was now almost a year since she had sent her message to him and she had almost given up hope of his coming.  Her heart gladdened as she suddenly knew that she was right.

             
He reigned in as she walked to meet him, rush basket filled with pungent herbs over her arm, and she saw how weary he was as he sat his horse looking down at her, the lines of exhaustion cut deeply into his face.  Yet he was still young, still handsome and strong, and she sensed it was the pain of grief that had brought him to this state.  She read it in his face and her heart went out to him despite the years of neglect.

             
'You are Morganna?  It is a long time since I saw you, child.'

             
'Too long, Father.  I was a child when you last saw me but I think I am not that now.'

             
His eyes went over.  She had grown, was taller than he would have imagined and there was a maturity about her that he had not expected.  She was a striking girl, her colouring much like his own.

             
'No, you are a young woman, Morganna.  Forgive me.  I had remembered you as a child.'

             
'There is nothing to forgive,' she told him at once, her face lighting up with a smile of rare sweetness.  Now he saw that she was beautiful.  'You have been at war and must have many duties to take your time.'

             
'I have neglected my duty to you, Morganna – but I came as soon as I received your letter.  Does your mother want to see me?  The last time I saw her we parted badly.'

             
Morganna's face clouded with sorrow, tears making her eyes sparkle though she blinked them away, lifting her head to gaze at him steadily.

             
'She is close to death.  Gwenny says she does not fight the sickness as Maire did.  She lies on her bed all day and will neither eat nor drink.  I think that she longs for death.'

             
'And you care for her,' Morgan said, studying her face thoughtfully.  There was tenderness in her, a womanly humility and grace that her mother had lost long ago.  'I know she has not always been kind to you. Yet you love her despite everything?'

             
'She is my mother.'  Morganna wiped the tears his soft words provoked with the back of her hand.  'But you are tired, Father.  Come in and rest.  I shall have the servants prepare food for you.'

             
'Yes, I am tired,' he agreed.  'I think I shall rest and eat before I visit Morwenna.'

*

Morwenna heard the door open but did not raise her head to see who had entered.  She was not interested.  Morganna would only nag at her, trying to force her to eat or drink something.  It was all too much trouble.  Why would they not simply leave her in peace?  Her life had no meaning.  Even the need to hate had left her now.  All she wanted was to be left alone to die.

             
'I have come to ask your forgiveness, Morwenna.  There has been anger and bitterness between us, but I would have an end to it.'

             
Morwenna opened her eyes as she heard his voice.  It had been so long that she'd believed she would never see him again.

             
'Have you come to gloat over me?' she asked hoarsely.  Her skin had turned yellow in these past weeks, her eyes dull from the sickness that possessed her every thought, and her once glorious hair had become thin and lifeless.  'Stare at me if you will.  I am ugly and old before my time – that is your doing, Morgan Gruffudd.  You brought me here to nurse that old witch Maire and she laid her curse on me before she died.'

             
'You are ill, Morwenna,' Morgan said, touched by sudden pity for her.  'Maire would not curse you, she was fond of you.  She blamed me for the rift between us not you.'

             
'In your place I would have told her the truth.'  Her mouth twisted with spite and then she began to cough.  The fit lasted for several minutes and blood trickled from the side of her mouth.  When at last the fit had ended she lay back against the pillows, exhausted. 'Why don't you laugh?  You will be free of me soon, free of the wife you never wanted.'

             
'I am not a vindictive man.  And I am sorry to see you like this, Morwenna.  May we not put the past behind us?'

             
Morwenna closed her eyes as the bitterness welled in her.  It was easy for him to prate of forgiveness; he was not sick and like to die at any moment.  He would live and be happy with his woman.  He might marry again once she was dead.  He had never wanted her, taking her only as a part of the bargain he had made with Owain.

             
'Go away,' she said, a sudden burst of anger giving her strength to lift her head from the pillows, her eyes blazing at him.  'I hate you, Morgan Gruffudd.  I shall curse you with my dying breath.'

             
'Such hatred still?' he said.  'I have never hated you, Morwenna, though the things you did angered and hurt me – but I have forgiven you.  Hate me if you will, but go to your final rest knowing that I have only pity for you.'

             
Morwenna lay back against the pillows, her strength gone, eyes closed, a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye.  He had only pity for her.  She did not want his pity!  She had wanted his love but he had given it to another woman, and all her life had been wasted in this empty place his neglect had brought her to. She would be glad to die…

*

Morgan and his daughter stood together as the priest said prayers over the departed woman, and then Morganna threw a posy of wild flowers into the open gave.  Morgan put an arm about her shoulders, leading her away as the servants began to fill it in with the damp, sticky soil, the smell of it in his nostrils as bitter as the moment.

             
'She is at peace now,' he said to the girl who was silently crying.  'Forgive me, Morganna.  I think the past years have been hard for you.  Your mother was not an easy person to care for I know.  I always meant to take you away for longer periods but somehow I have neglected to do what I had promised myself I would…'

             
'I do not blame you for that,' Morganna replied.  'I know that you and Lady Rosamund were angry with me for letting Richard swim in the lake that day…'

             
'You thought that?'  He looked deeply into her face and was saddened by what he saw reflected there.  'What selfish fools we were, thinking only of our own grief!  You loved him too.'

             
'I beat him in a race,' Morganna said, eyes laden with spilling tears.  'If I had let him win he would not have gone into the lake.'

             
'Richard always went his own way,' Morgan told her and reached out to stroke her cheek and brush away the tears with his fingertips.  'You could not have stopped him if he had made up his mind to swim, Morganna.  He was stubborn and reckless, and we always knew that his headstrong ways might lead him to trouble.  You were not to blame.  I have never blamed you and I know that Rosamund would not either.  She has been devastated with grief or I am sure that she would have asked for you to stay with her again.'

             
'I thought that I was being punished…'

             
'No!  God forgive me that I caused you such pain,' Morgan said.  He looked down into her lovely face and saw that she was a woman, and a woman who had known pain and suffering.  She had been forced to grow up too fast.  'Will you forgive me, Morganna?  I swear that I will make up for what I have neglected one day.  I do not know what Lady Rosamund plans for the moment but I shall ask her if she will allow you to live with her and her daughters for the time being – and perhaps one day I may be able to see more of you…'

             
'Will Lady Rosamund want me in her house, Father?  She must always be reminded of what happened when she sees me.'

             
'I believe that she would want to help you,' Morgan said.  'I may not be able to visit her just yet, for when I leave you I must return to Owain.  I ask that for the moment you remain here with Gwenny.  I shall send for you when I can.'

             
'Yes, Father.  Where else would I go?'

             
'Your mother had two brothers.  They were too young to take part in the rebellion when it began and they have never done so.  It might be that they would take you in.' Morgan nodded, his eyes serious as they rested on her lovely face.  'Something must be done about your future, Morganna.  I shall speak to Lady Rosamund as soon as I can, but if arrangements cannot be made – or if I should be killed – then you should approach your uncle at Bala for help.'

             
'I shall remember, Father,' Morganna said, her eyes downcast.  'But I pray that you will keep safe and that I shall see you again.'

             
She wanted to believe that he meant what he said, and that her life would change for the better, but she knew that he had forgotten her before.  It was possible that he would go away and forget her again.

Rosamund was in her solar intent on her embroidery when Bethan came to tell her that Jack Errin wished to speak with her.  He was the most faithful of her men-at-arms and she trusted him as she had Thomas Bridger.  She stood up, turning to greet him with a smile.

             
'You have some news of importance, Master Errin?'

             
'It is only that the King comes, my lady,' he replied, a little out of breath as if he had been running.  'A messenger has ridden on ahead to ask if you will receive His Majesty King Henry V.'

             
'His Majesty…' They had heard in the spring that King Henry1V had died of a seizure after visiting the shrine of St. Edward in Westminster Abbey.  'He has come here to me?'  She shivered as if a chill wind had touched her but conquered her fear almost at once.  There was no point in barring the gates against this king, besides she was weary of war and ready to learn what had been decided in the matter of her estates and lands.  'Then we must admit him, Master Errin.  Let it be done with all ceremony but with pride.  We have held this castle for more than thirteen years and we are not conquered but admit him of our own free will.'

             
'Yes, my lady,' Jack said bowed and went away to prepare the garrison for her bidding.

             
'Come, I must change my gown,' Rosamund said to her ladies.  'I shall wear my best silver robe over the tunic of blue for I must look well to meet His Majesty.'

             
She stood patiently as her ladies clothed her in her finery, letting them brush her hair and arrange it in coils about her head, covering it with a cap of silver thread encrusted with pearls and a long, shimmering  veil of silver gauze that hung down her back to her waist.  About her neck she had a double string of pearls which held a jewelled cross set in heavy silver, and her slippers were of the finest leather.  She looked regal, beautiful and fit to meet with any of royal blood, her head held proudly as at the fanfare of trumpets to announce the King's arrival, she went down to the Great Hall to meet him.

             
He came towards her, not a handsome man, but imposing, dressed in black and silver with a lean aristocratic face, long nose and short-cropped hair.  His eyes were piercing, inquisitive and knowing, reflecting a keen intelligence that she must respect.  She sank into a graceful curtsey before him.