Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (17 page)

“I wish to be back in your room,” she replied.

“Sally Bess has a good set of lungs on her, does na’ she? You must not
be small, after all.”

“P
lease, don’t say it again. ’Twas not what you think, ’twas—”

“’T
was almost more than I could bear, Morgan,” he whispered, “and damn me for
admitting to it. If you only knew how hard it was not to beat that door in and
stop you. I nearly died with each bit of pleasure you gave the wench, and I
canna’ stand myself for it!”

“Zander?” Morgan began, but then she was jostled against him and
almost pulled from him, and only by clinging to his back was she still with him.

“
You should na’ stay this close to me, Morgan.”

Her eyes were wide, as the crowd grew larger and more boisterous.

“I have nae choice! I’ll be pulled limb from limb!”

Another jostle, and then hands were pulling at her arms, her kilt, Morgan felt her neck swaying back as someone got hold of her braid and yanked.

“Zander! Save me!”

She didn’t think he’d heard her, then he was leaping atop a stack of baled hay, Morgan stuck at his side, until he reached the top and turned.

“Friends and countrymen!” Zander shouted, earning the attention due his
oral delivery. He looked aside at where Morgan was clinging to him. “Methinks
it time for a contest. Fetch his lordship! Fetch a challenger! Don’t just stand there! Fetch them! My squire is due to show his skill at dirks. You there! Set
up a target.”

“Already there! See
?” Someone shouted it.

“Zander
?” Morgan whispered.

“I already told you not to touch me, Morgan. I will na
’ say it again. I
will pry you off and you will na’ like it.”

She moved her hands from where she’d been wrapped about him and moved her eyes before he’d spot the flash of tears. The bales he’d climbed them atop gave a very good view of the playing field that was set up. There appeared to be four targets, one at each compass point in the inner bailey.

“This is most hasty and most unprepared, FitzHugh.”

The earl joined them, walking amidst a large grouping of over-dressed
and frilled gentlemen, obviously English, and Morgan had to dip her head to stop
the smile. They looked more feminine than she ever had! They had obviously been at a
feast, for some carried platters of food, some had flagons, and some still had
bibbed fronts.

“’T
is a riot we will have, if we doona’!” Zander returned. “Isna’ that
right, lads?” There was a din of noise, then Zander was yelling again. “And let
us not forget all the lusty lasses! They too wish Morgan to throw?”

The chorus of girlish voices was almost as loud as the other.

“His champion is stewed, and mine isna’ capable either.” One of the
elegantly dressed gentlemen complained.

“F
air enough,” Zander replied. “Morgan will toss by himself. Watch
close, my fine lords, and see what you’ve come to be bested by. Give room
around the target! Na’ that one! The farthest one!”

The crowd started moving. Morgan squinted. He was referring to the
target set up across the yard. As the sun was in its setting phase, torches weren’t
needed, but it was far enough away to make her nervous. She wondered if
Zander knew.

“Can you peg that?”

“’Tis a silly time to ask,” she replied, and bent to take the nine dirks from
her socks.

“
Is there any among you desirous of a little wager?”

Zander was speaking to the noblemen who had separated themselves to
the row of galleries along one side. They wouldn’t wish to mingle shoulder-to-shoulder with common folk. Morgan’s lips thinned.

Hands went up.

“Argylle? You have someone to keep tallies?” The earl nodded once.
“Then take them. Morgan throws eight dirks. He hits all into the target. Then, he is done. No more tossing. No more wagering. No more exhibition until the
morrow. We agreed?”

There was a huge uproar. Morgan didn’t know what it meant, but it
sounded like neither agreement nor disagreement to her.

“What if
he misses?” someone yelled.

Zander held out his hand and the crowd quieted. Morgan watched it happen with her eyes wide. “Then, he misses!” he replied. “
’Twill make the official games interesting, no? Now, back away from the target. Give him room to peg it without pegging a countryman. If you must stand in my squire’s way,
plant a Sassenach in front of you!”

There was a loud reaction to that. Morgan looked over at him, met his
look and tried to keep the smile off her lips.

“We ready?”

The sound resembled an ‘aye’, or something close. Morgan planted her
feet on a bale of hay, and tossed all eight, one after the other, and knew they
were landing, by the reaction about the target. What noise there was quieted
before she had the sixth in, and by the final two, there was absolute silence.

“Good God, Argylle,” one of the noblemen was heard to say, and then
cheers drowned out everything.

“
My dirks?” Morgan leaned over to whisper.

“
Martin has them. See? I would na’ have anything happen to your
perfectly balanced dirks. Now, follow close while we make good our escape. We doona’ have much time.”

“B
ut, they agreed! One toss. I doona’ ken. Zander?”

Zander shook his head.
“Do you wish to stand about and watch, or are you one with me?”

She couldn’t get her voice to work, so all she did was nod.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Morgan bested every opponent, and then bested herself. There turned
out to be over twenty champions the nobles were sponsoring, and each lord got
to pick a contest, whatever it be. Once Morgan won the contest, however, she
designed the challenge. Then, when no one could achieve it, she would, and
more.

It began with knives. The original challenge was to put two dirks in the
same spot. Once Morgan showed that two was child’s play, she showed her skill
at encircling an opponent’s two with ten of her own. At archery, she not only showed how to put an arrow into the center of one target, but Morgan then
showed them how to put arrows into the dead center of all four targets before the
applause had a chance to start up on her first direct hit. At hand-ax, she planted four of them in a straight line across, and then four down. With the English mace, she flung
straight and sure, and had the chain wrapping itself about the implanted, spiked ball, and then uncoiling, pulling the mace out with it. At sling, her aim was so accurate, the next morn saw almost all of her swelling group of followers practicing a sideways spin on their slings, rather than vertical, but it was dirks
that were her specialty. Everyone seemed to know of it, too, and when she took
a dummy and placed it in front of a target, and then put a dirk into the threads of the outer sack, all about the outline of it, pinning it to the target, without spilling one bit of the seed innards, the crowd was absolutely quiet, before the deafening
applause.

It was as exhilarating as she’d suspected it would be while it was happening, and it turned out to be just as disenchanting at almost every other
moment. She became a prisoner of her own fame. Her swell of followers grew
and expanded until Zander had to send for more FitzHugh clansmen to group about her and
protect her whenever she left his room, and that just restricted her more. Toward the end of the exhibition, she was going from elation to fear, celebration to despondency, and joy to despair, with equal measure given to each emotion.

The nights were filled with such debauchery, that contests were being set
up for drinking, wrenching and wrestling. Those, Morgan stayed far from,
although she could hear the revelry from Zander’s rooms until late at night when
Zander would stumble in, his eyes bloodshot, his step uneven, and his mood surly
and abrupt, and more than once amorous enough to make her threaten with the
dragon blade.

On the tenth day
of competition, there was only the young Squire Morgan of the
FitzHugh clan left. All takers had been not just eliminated, but annihilated, and
the earl was requesting one more showing. He wanted the finale of his games to be a one-man exhibition of Morgan’s skills before the tournament could be
called complete, all the side bets finished, and his hosting considered ended.

For the occasion, Zander had a ceremonial outfit delivered,
along with a silver-dragon brooch, pure hammered-silver wrist bands, and silver
embossed belt. The richness made Morgan gape, while Zander’s smile was wider than she’d ever seen. Then a tub was brought into what had become her cell, and everything she’d been experiencing for the entire ten days became merely a
foretaste of what was to come.

Morgan’s eyes grew wide and she gulped the immediate moisture from
her mouth. She watched as the tub, looking like an over-sized bucket, with
curved oaken sides kept together by large metal bands, was put into the middle of
Zander’s room, displacing the footstool. She watched as the stream of water was
delivered and poured in, making the air moist with steam, and she watched
Zander watch her. The dragon blade’s ruby-topped hilt was in her fingertips the
entire time.

Then, Zander sent everyone out.

“They’ll take it amiss if I doona’ wait upon my champion for this
moment,” he finally said when all she did was stand beside the tub and stare
across at him.

“I canna’ allow this,” Morgan whispered.

His face looked gray in the morning light, and his smile was no longer
wide, but slight, then it faded. “You doona’ accept your master’s admiration and appreciation of the honor you have brought my clan?”

“I can accept all that. I will accept this raiment that I will wear and
return, in honor of a Scot winning this tourney, but I will na’ allow you to stay
while I prepare myself and don it.” If she’d had less moisture in her mouth, the words would have made more sense. As it was, Zander listened through all of it
and then smiled.

“There will be no return of this sett. There will be no payment required,
nor will there be an argument. ’Twas ordered and made with care, just for you. ’Tis what a clan champion should wear...will wear. Even if I have to take the kilt you now
wear and hide it.” His eyebrows raised, then lowered. “I will na’ be shamed by
miserly dealings with one such as you. The earl’s offer for your service doubles
with each of your wins, and I will not have it said the FitzHugh clan needs even
listen to such offers, for lack of our own silver.”

“
With the amount of it to this one outfit that will na’ happen,” she teased. “but I have na’ been a champion long enough for the making of such a
garment, Zander.”

“At times, I wish you w
ere na’ so bright, lad.” He sighed. “But you are.
’Tis true enough. I had it ordered when I first left you and went for my brothers. I knew then what you would mean to me, and I wanted you to know what station
you hold in my household. You are na’ just a squire, Morgan. You are, forever,
my friend.”

“I will na’ add to my service time with such a sett,” she said, lifting her
chin.

Zander smiled shakily. “There is no servitude I can add to the lifetime of it you have already cursed me with. Cease this argument. We’ve still to prepare
you for this exhibition. Give me your kilt.”

Morgan paled. “I’ll not disrobe for you, FitzHugh.”

“
You must have some assistance. ’Tis Plato insisting it must be me.”

Plato?
Morgan wondered. She should have known.
“I doona’, and will na’, accept assistance from you, Zander, whether Plato
decrees it, or no.”

Zander’s smile faded. “I am na’ fond of the duty, myself. Now, hand
me your raiment and get beneath the water.”

“Nay,” she whispered.

“
Plato says I must.”

“Plato is a fool. No squire is attended by his master.
’Tis always the
other way around. Always.”

“
Except in times of honor. That’s what Plato says.”

“Plato is na’ right all the time!” Morgan argued.

“It will also earn me high marks with your followers. It will show my
respect and high regard for you. Now, give me the kilt. We doona’ have all day.”

Morgan was getting desperate, and Zander was looking it. She stepped back to the fireplace and pulled the dragon blade out.
“Does Plato know about
the blade?” she asked.

“
Nay.”

“Tell him, then. Tell him he canna’ insist on something like this. Tell him there are consequences.”

“I did. He knows. He says he is hopeful of that. He dinna’ explain.”

“He
what?
” Morgan lost the second word in a high-pitched cry.

“
Morgan, I know this is as abhorrent for you as it is for me, but it makes
sense. I am showing my respect. I am showing my willingness to serve you in this matter, for your service to me. Now, cease this arguing and get in yonder tub, before I take the garments from you and force you into it.” Then, he was
taking the chamber in floor-eating strides.

Morgan twisted the blade in her hands, the ruby catching the light. She
hated Plato, she decided. “If you touch me, I will na’ stay with you, FitzHugh.
You will lose me. Forever. Do you ken?”

The blade was no longer pointing toward him. Morgan had it against her
own stomach. That stopped Zander’s approach. He narrowed his eyes. Then,
he turned and put his back to her. “I canna’ do this, either, but you must be
served. Shall I send Squire Martin? Perhaps Plato should assist you, since it is
his plan.”

“I d
oona’ need served. I am a lowly squire, a base-born lad of no name
and no clan. I raided the dead for their riches. I am nothing.”

“You
are none of those things. You are the FitzHugh champion. I will
find you an assist. I will send Phineas.”

“Nay!”

“
You dislike him, too? Who do you wish me to send then, Morgan?
Whom? I will na’ leave you unattended.”

“Send me Sally Bess, then,” Morgan replied, quickly. It was the best she
could think of.

“The
whore?” His back was as stiff as the answer. Morgan watched him.

“The wench. I request Sally Bess.”

“
You wish her...you wish
that
?”
He sounded like he was choking. Morgan watched him.

“Plato wants me served. He is forcing you to serve. I will na’ accept
such service. I will accept Sally Bess to assist. I doona’ wish more of her than
that. I swear. Have her fetched, Zander. Do it for me.”

She didn’t know if he’d do as she asked, for once the door slammed, she
couldn’t hear what was happening, but she wasn’t taking one shred of clothing
off with Zander anywhere in the vicinity. The consequences were too immense,
and too life-altering, and Plato was too smug with his certainty that she was a lass. Morgan decided that she really did hate him.

“You sent for me?” Sally Bess’
s eyes were twinkling and her
smile was broader than her face seemed capable of supporting.

Morgan’s knees sagged. She hadn’t realized how taut and nervous she’d
been. “Thank God. I’ve got to get dressed and prepared for my exhibition. I
canna’ allow the FitzHugh to see me.”

“He will na’ then. Sally Bess will make certain of
it.” She turned and
shoved the bolt into place. “Now divest that kilt. We’ve a champion to dress,
and I’ve a debt to repay.”

“A debt?” Morgan asked, tossing off clothing.

“You have raised my value a thousand-fold, Squire Morgan. You doona’ understand the ways of men and women, or maybe you do, but I am nothing save an old, used, servant wench, and then I get called to serve the FitzHugh’s squire
with the donning of his raiment. Have you no idea of the honor you have just
bestowed on me? Mercy! In the middle of the morning, too. I swear, the others about me were seething with jealousy. Get yourself beneath that water. I’ll
handle the hair.”

The water had cooled while Morgan argued with Zander, but it was still warm and luxurious-feeling. Sally Bess’
s hands at her temples,
and the relief from Zander’s presence, were combining to make her slouch pleasantly in the tub, and soak in the water and make her mind a complete blank.
The exhibition she had yet to put on seemed a hundred leagues away, her vow even farther—and then Sally Bess started jumping up and down on Zander’s bed
and mouthing her lusty words and sounds of mating.

“Cease that!” Morgan commanded. “Cease it now!”

The woman only got louder, her movements more boisterous, and even
sent the silver belt dropping to the floor where it made a heavy thud.

“Sally Bess! If you d
oona’ cease that, I’ll tell all and sundry—”

“That you’re a lass
?” She had stopped her bouncing, pinned a sly look at
Morgan to ask it; and then she started up again.

“
Morgan, I will kill you with my bare hands!”

Zander’s shoulder was hitting the door, stopping Sally Bess for a moment
as the bolt held. Then, she started up again. Morgan slouched down into the
water, and wondered why she had been so stupid. She could have sent Martin to
a corner while she bathed. She could have tossed a cloth about herself. She
didn’t have to be naked in a tub, greased soap-scum lapping at her chin and
shoulders, and feeling the water’s chill against her blush, while a woman she
barely knew pantomimed intimacy with her. It was all her fault.

“M
organ! Open this door! Mor! Gan!” He actually yelled her name in two distinct breaths. Morgan’s eyes widened. She could imagine what he
probably looked like, she didn’t have to see it. And it was frightening to imagine. “Be
gone all of you! Now!”