Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (23 page)

If only there were something she could do
for her husband, to ease his burden, as any good wife would and
should do. But how? She had no fortune to cull from—and in any
case, that fortune no doubt would have already gone into Robert’s
hands at their marriage, if she’d had one. But still.

She swung around and began the trek across
the floor once more.

Was there some way, some means she’d not
already pondered, of bringing more coin into Robert’s coffers with
the methods that were already available to them?

She halted and lifted her gaze.
Or….

Should she send a missive to Guy—request
that he forgive the debt, as he’d sworn he’d do when she’d agreed
to run away with him?

But, if Robert discovered she’d done
so….

Morgana shook her head. Nay. She would not
betray her husband’s trust by doing such without his knowledge and
agreement.

Should she ask Robert if he would allow her
to do so?

Nay. On this she was certain he would ne’er
agree. There were too many years of enmity between the two, and her
husband’s sense of honor was strong. Nay, he was bound to pay the
debt and he’d not allow Guy to forgive even a fraction of it, even
if Guy could be persuaded to do so.

But how, then, might she aid her husband’s
cause? Nibbling her thumbnail, and taking another turn across the
small expanse of floor, her eye scanned then caught on a newly-dyed
length of crimson wool one of the weavers had brought to her a few
days past for her approval. An idea struck and Morgana rushed over
and lifted the cloth, noting again its fine weave, its lush
texture.

A grin bloomed on her countenance and she
pressed her cheek into the softness as she whirled ‘round and
‘round. This was the answer! She’d expand their cloth trade! Hadn’t
they sold all their goods on the first day of the fair during this
past Whitsonen day? Those fairs went on for days. If she could
manage to gather more clanswomen to weave, spin, and dye, why, she
just
knew
they could triple their profit at next year’s
fair!

And wouldn’t her husband be relieved?
Mayhap, even proud of her? Or, at least, he might find the strain
of her spells and lack of speech easier to bear.

On that last thought, Morgana’s
determination grew six-fold. If this might not only increase
Robert’s purse, but lessen the burdens forced upon him, then she
would do what e’er she must to succeed.

* * *

Tho’ the knowledge and worry o’er the coin
he owed Guy de Burgh was well-entrenched in Robert’s mind, he had
not forgotten the reason for Vika’s visit. Unfortunately, she did
not come down to break her fast until the nooning meal of the
following day, having sent word early that morn to them through a
servant that she was still tired, and would rest in her chamber a
bit longer. This, of course, reminded Robert of her sudden burst of
energy the day before when Guy de Burgh arrived, and brought forth
the irritation at both Vika’s
and
his breeding wife’s
reaction to the man.

But, now that the afternoon was well upon
them, and he and Morgana had spent the nooning meal with Vika,
learning what she knew of Morgana’s past, his ire had eased.

“Your revelations earlier aided me in
understanding some of Morgana’s fear, but there is much more to be
learned I trow,” he said to Vika as they strolled in the herb
garden.

“ ‘Tis sorry I am, but there truly is naught
else I can tell you,” Vika replied. Morgana had grown weary and had
retired to her chamber for a nap after their meal. Vika wished that
she could do the same, but she feared giving any indication of her
condition, so, instead, requested a turn about the garden, in hopes
the fresh air would revive her. “The brigands have ne’er been
captured, and ‘twas clear their purpose was robbery of weapons and
goods, as all the guards were stripped down to their braies. Even
the wagon that had carried my cousin and her mother and father was
ne’er discovered afterward.” She’d said all this before, but she
could see that Robert needed to hear it again, was still attempting
to piece it together in his mind.

“Aye, and ‘twas only when Morgana came to
court that you discovered she’d survived the attack, that she’d
been living in the land of the
Armorics
in a nunnery all
these years.”

“Aye, ‘tis truth.”

“What confounds me is this: Why had your
father not told you that Morgana survived the attack, that she was
alive and well in Brittany?”

“This confounds me not.” Vika shrugged. “I
was young as well when it happened—a mere lass of eight summers—and
now my father and I see each other little. For much of the years of
Morgana’s exile, I was wed and away on my husband’s island demesne,
and since his death, and my freedom, I have removed myself as much
as possible from his sight, even at court.”

“And since King William told me himself that
he’d demanded Morgana be taken from the nunnery and brought to his
court, signifies that he, as well, knew of her exile all these
years.”

“Aye, ‘tis no doubt truth.”

“And you have heard
naught
of the
details surrounding Morgana’s rescue? You have no names of anyone
whom you may have heard discuss her circumstance when she first
arrived at court?”

“Nay. All in my acquaintance knew naught of
her history. If there were any at court who remembered that time,
they were not among my friends.” She paused, furrowed her brow.
“But, I am disposed to believe that the matter was not well known,
for you ken how rampant the chatter is at court, and ‘tho I may not
have associated with those who were privy to information about that
time, if there had been stirrings among them, I would have heard
it—and so would have you, I trow.” Spying a planting of flowering
lavender, she bent to take in a long whiff of its sweet scent.

“Aye, you are no doubt right. Which leaves
only the King for me to go to for information. I would beg an
audience with him, if I did not have so much to o’ersee here. I
confess, her history would be of little matter to me, if ‘twere not
for Morgana’s sudden hauntings. They put her in a terror so strong
that she swoons most times.”

Vika straightened and faced Robert. “She has
hauntings? I had no notion...I thought ‘twas only the one time,
with this strange
Ankou
creature.”

Robert’s lips pressed together in a thin
line as he shook his head. “Nay, there have been more than one. One
night she even rose from our bed and, dreaming, wandered off
outside. When I found her, she was awake, but in a terror,
believing yet again that she’d seen
Ankou.
” He paused long
enough to take a breath, then continued, “Did you not see how pale
she became as you spoke of the ambush?

Vika nodded, but said naught, allowing him
to continue.

“I thought mayhap she was remembering—feared
she would swoon—but knew also that I could not deprive her of the
knowledge she’s been craving these past moons.” His look sharpened.
“And she sings in her sleep. She’s the voice of an angel. Know you
of this?”

“Nay! Truly?” Vika nibbled the side of her
lip. “Tho’ I do recall that, as a wee lass, she did sing as a
songbird, but now...how is she able? I thought her throat had been
harmed—mayhap even crushed, and that she had lost the ability to
make any sound.” Vika turned and gazed blindly at the color
spectrum of herbs and flowers before her. “ ‘Tis strange….” She
swept around and grabbed Robert’s hands, squeezing them. “Yet
miraculous! Robert! She may speak again, does this not please
you?”

He started walking again, and she fell in
line. “Aye,” he said, “at first it did, but now…. Now I wonder if
‘tis not more another incident linked to the violence and fright
she suffered as a bairn than a healing begun.” He inhaled deeply,
clearly in an effort to soothe some panic in himself. “I know not
how to ease her.”

Once again, Vika was stunned by the changes
she saw in Robert. ‘Twas clear to her that he was suffering from
some very deep emotions. A thing, until just now, she’d not fully
believed him capable of. “Fear not, she is stronger than she may
seem to you.”

He was silent a moment before saying, “Aye,
she is strong in many ways. But this...this...I know not.”

Vika gave him an awkward pat on the
shoulder. “She will be fine, you shall see.”

Coming to an abrupt halt, he turned and
faced her once more. “Aye, but what of our babe?” Robert startled
her by gripping her shoulders in his large, warrior hands, but
before she could protest the sting he caused, he said, “Vika, you
are a woman.”

The way he said it as if he’d just now been
seized with the truth of it vexed her, but seeing the wild frenzy
in his eyes helped her to ken the vulnerability in him, and
therefore the humor in his declaration, thus blunting the ire (at
least, a bit). She smiled. “Aye. I
am
a woman.”

He pressed his fingers into her flesh with
more force and she twisted, squealed.

“Tell me what to do,” he said, but lessened
his hold, then dropped his hands to his sides, releasing her
altogether.

Vika had no notion how to aid her poor
cousin, tho’ she wished fervently she did. However, still stung by
Robert’s words, the imp inside Vika rose to the surface, spoke for
her. “Why, Robert, ‘tis clear! For, as you say, your babe is in
jeopardy. You must sing to her—”

“Sing! Nnn—”

“Aye! Sing! Every morn before rising and
every eve before sleeping.” The round-eyed fright in Robert’s eyes
and the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple told her he was extremely
close to believing her. “If you truly care for your wife and your
babe’s welfare,” she went on, “you will do this thing I say! For
I’ve heard this o’er and o’er from the older matrons at court who
had weaknesses during their babe’s ripening. They say their
midwives told them that a soothing song sung by the babe’s sire was
the only, and best, thing for a childbed to go smoothly and with
little duress.”

Aye, revenge was sweet.
You are a
woman!
As if he didn’t have familiar and personal knowledge of
such! She tipped her head to the side and did a slow shake of her
head, inhaling on a shrug. “Of course, if your pride is stronger
than your care for your wife and unborn son, I understand.”
Last
nail
. “And, worry not,” she said, with a pat on his shoulder,
“I’ll not tell Morgana that you were too weak of character to
perform such a minor task for her and the babe.”

She heard a grumble erupt from him, but then
he said, “All right. I’ll—I do not believe this!—I’ll try it.” He
narrowed his eyes at her. “This had better not be one of your
tricks.”

She gave him her best look of innocent
surprise. “Robert! I would ne’er trick you about something as
important as this!” Who knew? Mayhap Robert’s singing
would
soothe Morgana and the babe. Or, if not soothe, then surely give
them great mirth. For was it not true that ‘twas healthier to laugh
than to cry? And, how could demon memories break through when such
jollity and glee were being had? Nay, she was not doing a harm to
her cousin, she was sure.

* * *

Chewing on her thumbnail, Morgana absently
closed the bedchamber door behind her and stumbled over to the
stool in the nook by the window. In one movement, she collapsed
upon it and brought the hose she’d been mending for Robert into her
lap with trembling hands.

While her mind churned with dread thoughts,
her fingers worked, first fumblingly pulling the threaded needle
from the soft wool, then beginning the looped stitching by
rote.

The only knowledge Vika had had of the
Ankou
creature had been tales she’d been told as a child by
Alaric Albinus, a friend of her father’s. The name sent a tingle of
dread down Morgana’s spine, but ‘twas no doubt due to her melding
of the name with her vision of
Ankou
, now that Vika had told
her of his connection to the tale, so she did not allow it to take
root. Pausing in her stitching, she closed her eyes and took in two
deep breaths.

There. ‘Twas gone.

With newfound vigor, she set her fingers
back to work, willing her hands to still their shaking. But, after
only a stitch or two, her mind, of its own volition, swerved back
to her cousin, and what little she’d been able to glean from
her.

Vika had been able to impart little about
Morgana’s mother and father, other than there had been an attack on
their caravan as they were returning home from the King’s court.
Yet, what she had learned was enough to send rivulets of fear
through Morgana’s veins. An image—a memory? Or simply more proof of
her growing madness?—kept forming in Morgana’s mind, and try as she
might to force it back to where e’er it had come, ‘twould not be
beaten back this time. ‘Twas a lurid and vile tableau of a man
grunting and moving fiercely atop a woman, with his hand clamped
o’er her mouth as he bit her breast. That same dank smell that
would always bring about such a terror in her pervaded the place in
her vision. The image, the scent, the sounds he made, brought with
it a stray, confused thought and feeling that he was suffocating
the woman, tho’ Morgana, as she gripped the hose in her fist and
tried to shut her mind to the vision, understood that he was
actually forcing himself upon the woman. When his hand at last
released his victim’s mouth, Morgana saw that the woman’s lips, her
teeth, were red with blood. A chill tripped o’er Morgana’s skin,
making icicles of her fingers, when the woman said, “I’ll never be
yours. Never,” and the man replied, “You already are.”

A high-pitched ringing began inside her
head, her perception tunneled, making her mending seem far away
before she blinked and looked up. The room spun and a dark fog
crowded the sides of her vision.
Nay! I will not swoon!