Morgan the Rogue (47 page)

             
'And may God be with you all.'

             
Morgan watched as they turned and began to make their way through the snowy pass.  The weather was treacherous and had been for the past several weeks.  It was not fit for man or beast to be out on a night like this, and few could survive long in such hostile conditions.

             
He returned to Owain, knowing that the sick man could not travel much further, his heart heavy as he saw the shadow of the man who had set out with such high hopes on this glorious adventure more than thirteen years before.

             
'There is a cave I know of not far from here, Owain,' he said.  'Let me take you there.  It is dry and will shelter us from the night, and I can care for you there – until you are ready to go on again.'

             
'You know that I shall not survive the night, Morgan.  I did not want the others to see me die.  They have given so much for me…suffered so much in my cause.'

             
'We did what we did for Wales,' Morgan replied.  'Do not repine, Owain.  A man must do what he has to if he is be free.  You were our prince and we followed you.  It was our choice. I for one have never regretted it'

             
'You have been the most faithful, the bravest and best of them all,' Owain said.  'When I am dead you must bury me here in the mountains and then you must surrender to the King.  This new king is a better man than his father.  I believe you may come to honourable terms with him.'

             
'Speak not of dying or of surrender,' Morgan said, his expression grim.  'Once you have rested you will feel better.  It is not far now.'

             
But it was too far for Owain, he could no longer sit his horse.  Morgan lifted him from the saddle, carrying him in his arms, the horses plodding behind him of their own accord as if trusting him to find them shelter.

             
The cave reached, Morgan laid his kinsman on the ground and made a pillow of his cloak for him.  The snow was falling thickly now, covering their tracks, though the English would not be fool enough to search for them in this weather.  But here they were safe for the moment, safe and warmer than on the exposed mountainside. There was wood in the cave that had been left there for just such an emergency as this, a pile of mouldering hay that would serve the horses as fodder and there was food and a little wine in the bags the packhorse carried.  He could melt snow for water for them all.

             
Morgan made a fire and warmed a little wine, making a drink of some herbs that Morganna had given him.  She had told him that it would ease him when he was tired and he had kept them with him, now he offered the cup to Owain, who sipped it gratefully.

             
'You are a good friend,' he said.  'No more for now, Morgan.  Sit here with me and talk to me.  Tell me how good it was when we held so much of Wales…'

             
'Merlin's prophecy came true,' Morgan began.  'We held Harlech and most of…' He ceased to speak as he saw that Owain's eyes had closed.  He was sleeping.  Morganna's tisane had given him some ease at last.

             
Owain lived for two more days in that cave.  Morgan tended him like a baby, cleaning him, giving him the drink that was all he would take and talking to him.  And when at last he died, he wept over him, holding him in his arms until the warmth had gone and he was as white as the snow that had fallen for almost two weeks but was melting now.

             
Owain had asked that he bury him – but where?  In his grief Morgan could not think at first of a fitting place to bury the man who had been prince in Wales, and then it came to him.  He would take him to the high place where he had taken Kestrel, and he would beg the old gods to take him with them to eternal life.

*

'Take him to your bosom, gods of my ancestors,' Morgan cried, arms outstretched, eyes turned to the sky as the light began to fade.  'Give him I beg you the life you gave to Merlin and Kestrel, so that he may never die but live on to be held for ever in the memory of men.'

             
The snow had melted here, leaving the mountainside slippery and the earth wet.  A pale sun had fought its way through the leaden skies and that day Morgan had seen the first signs of spring as he fought his way through the mud and slush to this place, but now the night was cold and seemed to herald a return of winter. 

The journey here had been difficult and he had been close to despair, for by burying Owain he was burying the hopes of a people.  This was his last hope – the hope that the miracle that had happened once before would happen again.

             
He went into the slow, ritual whirling that had on two occasions brought him visions, round and round endlessly until his head span and he fell to the ground in a daze.  His dreams were vivid but he saw nothing that stayed with him when he woke and Owain's body lay upon the altar of stone where he had placed it the previous night.

             
Morgan knew that his hopes had been in vain.  Kestrel had been a magician but he was a mortal man, as was Owain.  His attempt to summon the old gods had failed and there was nothing left for him but to bury Owain.

             
His body was aching from lying on the hard ground, and the cold had nipped at his toes, giving him pain.  He grimaced ruefully as he took his sword and began to carve a grave for Owain in the soft earth at the foot of the mountain.  It was hard, painful work and he toiled for some hours before it was finished and he could at last lay his friend to rest.

             
'Here lies a great man,' he said as he stood over the grave, which he had covered with stones so that it could not be discovered or opened by man or beast.  'I pray that God will give him rest.  May he be judged by what he believed and what he tried to do, not what he achieved.'

             
'Do not despair, Morgan,' a voice said softly behind him and as he span round he saw Kestrel hovering just above the ground.  'Owain shall never die in the hearts and minds of those who loved him.'

             
'Kestrel…' Morgan walked towards him but the image was gone.  'What do you mean?  Owain is dead.'

             
'Only if you believe it…' the voice was still there in his head but he could not see Kestrel.

             
'Only if I believe it…' Morgan frowned.  'Damn you, Kestrel.  Riddles always riddles…I beg you, tell me what I must do for I do not know.'

             
'Look into you heart and know yourself, Morgan Gruffudd.  Remember what the mountains told you before.'

             
'Look into my heart and remember…' Morgan frowned, and then his head went up and he was smiling.  'Owain shall never die…Merlin lives…Kestrel lives…' 

             
And then he knew what he must do.  Owain had gone into the mountains and would never return, but none should know of his death.  It should remain a mystery.  For as long as men believed that Owain might come again they would believe and hope; he would live on as a legend, a glorious legend of what was and what might have been – perhaps might yet come to be.

             
'Men shall sing of him in the mountains for a thousand years,' he said softly and his spirits lifted as the sun broke through the grey of the skies, warming him, and he knew that spring was truly on its way.  'Owain the true Prince of Wales does not lie buried in this ground.  He lives on in our hearts and minds forever.'

*

Morgan's message to the followers of Owain was this: Owain had gone apart from them for a little while to rest and recoup his strength.  When he was ready he would return to them, but those who wished to surrender had his permission and his blessing.

             
Those who had been with them towards the end might suspect that Owain was no longer in this life, but they would not speak of it for they had been fiercely loyal.  It was a conspiracy that all would keep.

             
There were many who were surrendering now to the new king, who had shown a leaning towards leniency and forgiveness, but others never would.  As far as the English were concerned, Owain and his closest followers were still somewhere in the mountains, wandering as they had been for many long months.

             
Morgan spread his message far and wide before turning his horse towards Gruffudd Manor.  He had come to a decision over the weeks since Owain's death.  He would not surrender to the English as so many others were doing but return to his home.  His thoughts were often of his daughter now, and he knew he owed her a duty.  He had neglected her too long and must make what amends he could.

             
She would be fourteen years in September of that year and he must think of a marriage for her.  The choice was not as wide as it might have been if he had been able to beg a favour of Rosamund for her, but still he would do his best to secure a future for his daughter.

             
He would write to her uncles at Bala, and to other men he knew who had settled their difficulties with the English.  He knew of one or two young men he thought worthy of the girl and would see how the land lay in that direction.  Until her marriage he would bide with her at Gruffudd - unless the English came to arrest him.

             
He would try to solve the matter of Morganna's marriage before that happened if he could, but if not he would ask the King to show her mercy and he did not doubt that it would be granted.  The man he had met that day in his prison cell did not make war on innocent women.

*

Rosamund had been in London for some months when she decided that she would pay a visit to Caris.  She had heard of the favourable terms offered to any of Owain's followers that surrendered now, and she wanted to ask one more time if Morgan would reconsider.

             
'May I tell him he would be treated favourably, Sire?' she asked of the King when she sought an audience.  He had received her in his private chamber, which was hung with silken tapestries and much warmer than the echoing halls of the palace.

             
'I shall be glad to welcome Morgan Gruffudd to my service, lady,' King Henry told her.  'I have a place for such men as he amongst those who serve me.   Ask him to swear allegiance to my faith and it shall be as if there was never any anger between us.'  He smiled at her.  'I offered terms once before and they were rejected.  I pray that you will have success where I had none.'

             
Rosamund curtsied deeply.  'I shall do my best to make him see the sense of your offer, Sire.'

             
She was thoughtful as she left the court later that day.  Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall, carved stone faces peering down at her from alcoves to either side, flanked by gleaming armour, shields and pennants, reminders of a glorious age of chivalry now passed.  From sconces on the wall torches flared, giving an unreal light to the huge chamber.  It's chill made her shiver and hold her mantle about her more tightly.

She had enjoyed the time she'd spent here at Court basking in the King's favour.  It had been almost as it was when she was young and much loved by her father and King Richard, but she had discovered that honour and wealth meant little to her if she must spend her life without the man she loved.

             
Morgan was a part of her, the man she would always love and she missed him desperately.  The grief that had set a barrier between them for so long had eased now and she had at last reached a time when she could remember her son with pleasure.  Richard's death had left a gap in her life that could never be filled but she knew that she must move on.  She must begin to live again before it was too late.

             
Perhaps if she could see Morgan again, talk to him, it might not be too late to begin again.

             
She would go back to Caris and see if Morgan had visited in her absence.  It might be that he had left a message for her.  With so many of Owain's followers surrendering now he must surely know that their cause was finally lost?

Morganna looked toward the mountains.  The fragile sun was striking showers of light from the streams that cascaded over boulders worn smooth with age and yet she shivered, wrapping her cloak about her.  Her father had been gone all the previous day and night and she was worried for him.  It was still bitterly cold despite the signs that spring was on its way, too cold for him to sleep out on the mountain at night.  He had come to her weary and sick at heart and she had done her best to ease him in whatever way she could, making her healing tisanes and giving him good food.  Yet it seemed that nothing could ease whatever was eating at his soul and he spent many hours alone, walking in his beloved mountains.

             
He had tried to be cheerful for her sake and she knew that he had sent out letters in the hope of achieving a good marriage for her, but his heart was heavy.  She dare not ask what troubled him so but she had seen the haunting sadness in his eyes and that hurt her.  He was a shadow of his former self, wrapped about by brooding sorrow, yet still proud, at times untouchable.  Her inability to ease that inner pain was a constant ache in her breast for he was her father and she loved him.