Morgan the Rogue (48 page)

             
In the months since her mother's bitter death Morganna had employed her time in helping others.  There had been some sickness in the village that winter and her cures had brought relief to many, though too many had died.  But at least they had not been visited by the plague, which had decimated the population in the last century and still scythed its way through the country from time to time, cutting down all it touched with the cobwebby hand of death..

             
At last!  Morganna's anxiety eased as she saw her father coming towards her.  He was carrying a posy of wild flowers and presented them to her with a smile.

             
'I found these in a sheltered spot on the mountain, Morganna.  It is a sign that winter is nearly done I think.'

             
'Yes, perhaps,' she agreed and held them to her nose, inhaling their perfume.  'But you should not spend so much time on the mountain, Father.  Why not come in and rest by the fire while I make you something warming to eat?'

             
'You worry too much, Daughter,' Morgan said and grinned at her in the old way, the years seeming to slip away for a moment before the shadows closed in once more.  'I have been used to living rough these many years.  You would spoil me with your mothering.'

             
Morganna laughed and shook her head.  She could not tell him that he meant all the world to her and that her joy in his return to Gruffudd was always shadowed by the fear that he would go away and forget her again.  No matter that he had told her she had kin, who would take her in, it was her father she loved.  She had been afraid in the long lonely months after her mother's death that she would not see him again, but he had kept his promise to return.

             
'You must not mind my fussing, Father.  It is a pleasure to me to have someone to fuss over.'

             
He looked at her then, his eyes moving over her face, searching.  'Your life has been lonely here.  We must see what can be done in the matter of finding you a husband you can love and respect, Morganna.  I would have a good man for you, one that will treat you kindly.'

             
'Oh, Father.  I am not in such a hurry to be wed.  I am happy to be here with you.'

             
'I am but poor company for you,' he said.  'If things were different I should have taken you to visit friends…' Morgan sighed.  'But we must make the best of what we have.  I noticed that the bottom meadow lies fallow.  It should be ploughed and the seed sown if it is to bear a harvest this year.'

             
'Yes, I suppose it should,' Morganna agreed.  'We have had sheep there for the past few years but there was no one to tell us what to do after Maire died – and then my mother was ill and everything was left to chance. We have been lucky in these hard times, Father, for many have lost everything.  At least we support ourselves, though there is little enough to sell.'

             
'I am here now.  I neglected the land when I was young but shall not do so now.'  He broke off as a fit of coughing took him and then cursed as she looked at him in concern.  'It is nothing, Morganna.  Do not look so anxious.'

             
'It was bitter last night.  You may have taken a chill.  Come, I shall make you something for your chest.  You should rub some goose grease into it tonight…'

             
They were almost at the house when they saw the horse and rider approaching from the direction of the village.  Morganna's heart caught with fright as she sensed a sudden stillness in her father.  He had waited outside for the rider to reach them, but pushed her towards the door.

             
'Go into the house, Morganna.'

             
'Let me stay with you.'

             
'Do as I say.'

             
She hesitated and then went inside.  They seldom had visitors.  Who could the horseman be?  Was it the summons she knew her father had been expecting?  The English would have learned that he was here.  Had they sent for him to surrender?  She stayed just inside the door, straining to hear what was said outside.

             
'You are the lord of this manor – Morgan Gruffudd?'

             
'Yes.  Who asks?'

             
'I come from the King, sir.  He offers you the hand of friendship if you will swear fealty to him.  You are commanded to come to a certain place at a certain time and surrender your sword.'

             
'Give me your message.'  Morgan held out his hand for the scroll.  'Thank you, sirrah.  You may tell your master that I shall give some thought to his offer.'

             
'You have one month to surrender.  After that…'

             
Morgan silenced him with a wave of his hand.'

             
'You need not continue.  I am aware of the consequence of further disobedience.  You have my answer.'

             
'I shall give my message to my master.'

             
Morgan turned and went into the house.  He saw his daughter waiting for him and knew from her anxious look that she had been listening, and that she was worried for his sake.

             
'You should not have listened, Morganna.  I did not want you to hear.  You will only worry.'

             
'But Father…should you not have sent fairer words to the King?  Has the time not come to lay down your sword?  Everyone says that the rebellion has failed.'

             
'We have lost all that we once held,' Morgan agreed.  'But even if we held Wales for but a short time it was glorious.  No one can take that away.  Owain's name will live in the minds of men forever.'

             
'Owain is a legend as are you,' Morganna said.  'But no man can stand alone, Father.  Would it not be better if Owain were to lead his men into the surrender?  Could there not be honour in admitting defeat?  You have fought long and bravely but the English were more powerful.'

             
'You are as wise as you are beautiful, my daughter,' Morgan said and smiled at her.  'But Owain will never surrender.'

             
He was tired, so very tired.  He had wandered all night, resting hardly at all, trying to remember and make sense of all that had happened these past years.  Had it all been in vain?  The dream was over and the taste of defeat was bitter as gall.  Yet it had been glorious in the doing.

             
What was it that Kestrel had said to him once – that he would not gain his heart's desire though it might seem for a while that he had.

             
'Yet that which you do not yet truly know to be your desire shall be
yours.'

             
Morgan had never been sure what the healer had meant by that, though he had thought at times he must mean Rosamund and the love that had blossomed between them.  Surely that had been the most wonderful thing he had known, more precious even than the fall of Harlech Castle and the victories he had won on the field of battle.  But that love was gone now, lost to him by his own foolishness.

             
He sighed as he went up the twisting stair to his chamber and lay down on his bed.  It was because he felt so very tired that the pain of his loss was hard to bear.  When he had rested he would be able to face his life once more.

*

Morganna found him later when she took him the healing drink she had made for him.  He was tossing restlessly on the pillows, his skin as hot as fire and beaded with sweat.  She laid a hand on his brow, soothing it as she bent over him anxiously.

             
'It is a fever,' she told him softly.  'It will pass and I shall care for you, my dear father.  You will be well again.'

             
'Rosamund…' the cry was wrenched from him as he twisted in agony, his fingers curling about her wrist in a fierce grip that pained her.  'Rosamund…forgive me.  I loved you…always loved you…so sorry that he died…but I loved you…'

             
'Of course you loved her,' Morganna soothed.  'I saw the love between you when I visited…'

             
In truth she had been a little jealous of it, though the lady of Caris had been kind to her, welcoming her into her family – until that dreadful day when Richard died.

             
'Rosamund…forgive me…'

             
Fetching cool water to bathe her father's heated body, Morganna wondered that he cried out so desperately for the lady of Caris.  She had believed that his despair was for the loss of the cause that had meant so much to him, but was it possible that there was another, deeper reason?

             
'Rest easy, Father,' she whispered as she held him later, helping him to sip a little of the warm cordial she had brewed.  'I shall send to your lady and beg her to come to you.  If she loves you half as well as I believe she will answer my plea.'

             
Morgan was too far gone in his fever to know what she said, conscious only of the soft hands that tended him and the loving voice that comforted his feverish dreams.  But the water had cooled him for a while and her cure had given him sleep for the moment, a sleep that was disturbed only now and then by a fitful cry.

             
Morganna watched over him until he seemed to rest, then went downstairs and penned a careful letter.  She sent for her most trusted groom and gave him the sealed message.

             
'You must take this to the Castle of Caris, Jedro.  You have been there before with a message for my father; this is to the lady of Caris herself.  You are to give it to her yourself and wait to guide her here should she decide to come.'

             
'Yes, mistress,' Jedro said and grinned at her.  'I shall do your bidding as you say.'

             
Morganna watched him leave the house.  It was a journey of several days there and back, but she could only pray that Jedro's journey would not be in vain. And, of course,  that Rosamund was at Caris.  If she had gone away…

             
Sighing, Morganna went back to her father's chamber.  She found Gwenny there, bending over him.  She was bathing his forehead again and Morganna saw that he was hot and sweating once more.

             
'He was a little better when I left him,' she said, looking anxiously down at Morgan's flushed face.  'I fear he is very ill, Gwenny.'

             
'I have seen such fevers before,' Gwenny replied.  'We can do naught but watch over him and keep him as cool as we may.  But you are tired, my lovely.  Go you and rest a while and I'll stay by him.'  She smiled as the girl would have argued.  'Nay, you cannot tend him all the time or you will be ill and I could not care for both of you.'

             
'You are right to chide me,' Morganna said and her eyes were shadowed even as she smiled.  'But he is so precious to me, Gwenny.  If he should die...'

             
'Such nonsense!'  Gwenny scolded.  'Morgan Gruffudd is a strong man and a fighter.  If the English could not kill him, think you a fever can?  Nay, rest easy for you worry too much. A little fever such as this will not defeat him.'

             
Morganna shook her head but she left the nurse to care for him while she took her rest in her own chamber.  Gwenny was right, all they could do was care for him – and pray.

             
She knelt beside the bed, hands clasped, head bent in prayer.

             
'Do not take him from me,' she whispered.  'I have known him such a little time.  I beg you let him live – and let Lady Rosamund show mercy and come to him…'

*

Rosamund stared at Jack Errin in dismay as he told his tale of Morgan's visit to Caris in her absence.

             
'But I left a letter for him.  It was to have been given into your care lest Morgan should come while I was away.'

             
The man's honest face showed his bewilderment. 'Forgive me, lady.  I swear that I have not received it.  I should have been right glad to give it to my lord for he was mighty disappointed that there was no word left for him.'

             
Rosamund contained her anger; that should be reserved to Master Baldry and in private.  'I thank you for telling me the truth, Master Errin.  You will come to me at once if any message should come from Gruffudd for me.'

             
'Yes, my lady.'

             
Rosamund walked slowly back to her chamber, her head bent in thought.  Bethan was ordering her clothes, the trunks half unpacked and her things strewn everywhere in a profusion of bright silks and velvets.  Bethan apologised for the mess as she turned to her with a smile.