Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (54 page)

Once they’d both cleaned and clothed
themselves in shirt or chemise, once they were settled on the
bench, once she’d ladled a portion of the stew into the trencher,
once she’d poured some ale into a cup for him, and once she’d
watched him devour near all the trencher-f in no more than three
bites (thus proving, in her own mind at least, that she’d been
right about his need for sustenance), she said, “For how long did
you know my father lives, and why did you not tell me?”

His gaze met hers. From her periphery, she
watched him finish chewing, watched his throat flex as he
swallowed, watched him wipe his mouth on the cloth she’d provided,
and waited, refusing to utter the words again.

His eyes narrowed and he lifted his cup,
taking in a long swallow, then slowly set it back atop the table.
Finally, he said, “I’ve known since the day our babe flushed from
your womb.”

Anger boiled in her gut. “That long?”

“I did not tell you because I feared you
were not well, neither in the mind, or in the body.”

Morgana would have loved to refute him, but
knew all too well that he spoke the truth, so she said naught.

“And later?”

He scrubbed his hand o’er his chin.
“Later...well, later….” He turned to more fully face her. “Morgana,
‘tis not only your father that survived that attack, your mother
did as well. You know her as Modron, your lady’s maid.”

Morgana gasped and leapt to her feet, taking
several paces away from him. For long moments, she stood with her
arms folded over her chest and stared blankly at the array of
hunting knives that graced the wall of the cot. She felt cold
inside. “She misled me,” she said at last.

From behind her, she heard Robert rise from
the bench and move toward her. “Only because”—She took another step
away, needing to keep the distance between them—“she knew her only
chance to succeed in finding evidence against your uncle, so that
he could be punished for his crimes against your family, was to
allow him to believe she’d perished in her attempt to escape Alaric
Albinus’ clutches.”

“And my father? Does she know he lives, or
did you keep that knowledge from her as well?”

She heard him clear his throat. “She was the
one that revealed it to me.”

Morgana shivered.
Betrayed.

“But, by then we knew that Donnach wanted
you dead, and our best means of exposing his crimes was to keep you
safe in your chamber, and keep the fact of your mother and father’s
surviving the attack a well-guarded secret.”

She’d stopped
listening.
Betrayed.
The word kept repeating in her head. Her mother, her father,
her cousin, her uncle, her
husband.
They’d all betrayed her. From far off came the
sound of Robert’s voice. He was saying her name and it brought her
from her thoughts.

“...there was a plot
against your life. Morgana...
Blood of
Christ, Morgana
, they poisoned you, killed
our babe! I should have protected you. I failed.”

Poisoned. Killed our
babe.
She felt lightheaded and took in a
sustaining breath to keep from swooning. She swiveled and strode
past him back to the bench. He followed.

In silence, she poured
another cupful of ale for him, filled his trencher with more stew.
As he ate, she pondered all she’d learned. Her uncle’s minions—the
ones that had seized her—were the cause of her losing her babe.
‘Twas not her fault, as she’d feared. And ‘twas not Robert’s
either, tho’ clearly he felt he was to blame. Lifting her eye to
his profile, she recalled his words, and listened with new ears to
the reasons he’d given her for his betrayal of her trust. After
losing her babe, she
had
been heartsick, she
had
had spells. If it had been he
who was in such a state, would
she
have told him of the danger? Taunted fortune, and
revealed Modrun and the tinker’s true identities? Nay, she knew she
would not have done so.

“They killed our babe, Robert.” She pounded
her fist down on the table. “I hate my uncle! I hate those men!”
She flung herself up from the stool and stormed toward the wall of
knives, her arms folded tight over her chest, her eyes blindly
staring into the distance.

“I know, love, I hate them too.”

Her head bent, her eyes filled with
anguished tears. “I didn’t before,” she murmured, “but I do now.”
Her shoulders quaked and she covered her face with her hands. “God
will punish me for such a sin, but truly, I cannot help it.”

A warm wall of comfort spread behind her and
strong hands settled on her shoulders.

“Nay, he will not,” Robert soothed. “I
cannot—I will not—believe it. They are the devil’s minions, and
you—you and our babe—are the innocents.”

She turned in his arms and he held her
close. After a quiet moment, he led her back to the table and he
resumed his meal.

“Why did you not tell me that Grímr is the
father of Vika’s babe?” she asked into the silence.

He looked up at her, his
eyes skimming her countenance. Evidently deciding she’d recovered
enough from the earlier blow, he said plainly, and with a thread of
accusation running through his tone, “Because I discovered the
truth
after
you’d
bolted.”

Morgana remained still, but inside she
squirmed. “I...see.” She dropped her gaze to the trencher. “Finish
your meal, it grows cold.”

Robert surprised her then, reaching out and
covering her hand with his. “How could you e’er believe I love
Vika?”

“Because you believed—I believed—I was mad.”
She peeked up at him, but then dropped her gaze once more, unable
to retain the courage. “But I am not mad. I thought I was,
but...once my memory returned I realized my swoons, my visions,
were merely antecedents to my remembrance of my past and all that
happened.”

“Aye, I know. You are far from mad. And you
are not as fragile as I once believed you to be, either.”

Her spine straightened and her chin went up.
“Aye, I am not. ‘Tis glad I am that you have at last realized
such.”

With a grin, he tucked a lock of hair behind
her ear. He leaned in and dropped a soft kiss on her lips then drew
back a fraction, enough to capture her gaze, and murmured, “Know
this: ‘Tis you, and you alone, who holds my heart. I love you,
Morgana.”

Humiliatingly, her eyes misted. “Truly?”

She wanted so desperately to release her
burgeoning joy in a flood of tears, but she fought them back.
Still, her nose grew damp, and she was forced to sniffle. Robert
wrapped his arm around her shoulder, drew her into his side,
settled his cheek on the crown of her head, and pressed the cloth
to her nose, saying, “Blow,” and as she obeyed, she felt the weight
of his lips on her forehead, and knew, no matter what else might be
revealed this night, their hearts and lives were irrevocably bound
for e’er more.

The Highlands, Scotland

The MacVie Holding, Yule 1207

T
HE SMALL MACVIE chapel was cast in a citrine glow that eve by
the flickering of a hundred taper flames. Finely made tapers of
beeswax, with a series of swirls and fleurons upon their bases that
framed an illumined gold leaf letter
C
, had been sent as a gift from King
William for the couple, and had arrived only this day past. The
sweet honeyed scent of them pervaded the chamber, brought a smile
to Morgana’s lips.

The couple kneeled at the
altar, heads bowed, hands clasped in front of them in prayer, as
the priest began to recite,
“Concede,
quaesumus, omnipotens Deus….”
Through the
bride’s lilac-hued gossamer veil, Morgana surreptitiously admired
the unbound golden brown hair that fell past the lady’s waist. Even
now, five moons later, she could not fathom how easily guiled she’d
been by her lovely, still youthful, mother’s disguise.

She and her family had
been through so much these past moons since Morgana’s capture and
subsequent rescue. They’d only been given leave by the King to
return to the MacVie holding five sennights past, after having been
obliged to stay as his guests at his castle at
Sruighlea
until her uncle’s trial
and punishment were concluded. But now, with Donnach’s hanging
witnessed, and well in the past; the furbishing and additional
construction to the keep all but completed; and with the feasts for
both the Yule and for this joyous occasion of the renewal of her
mother and father’s vows planned o’er the next days before they at
last would return to their own forsaken home,
Aerariae secturae
, Morgana finally
could let all her sadness, her bitterness, her anger fly away, and
simply enjoy the moment.

The prayer concluded, the priest invited the
guests to rise from their kneeling stools and take their seats on
the benches behind them. Robert aided her to rise then continued
holding her hand as they settled together on their seats.

“
Et ait faciamus
hominem ad imaginem...,”
the Priest
intoned, beginning the first reading from the Book of
Genesis.

A sudden fluttering movement beneath her
breast made Morgana gasp aloud before she could restrain it, and
she pressed her palm to the side of her belly.

“Is it the babe? Are you well?” Robert said
anxiously, placing his own hand o’er hers.

The priest continued to
read, but sent a stern glance in their direction, so Morgana
shushed her husband and straightened on the bench, giving Robert a
nod and a whispered, “I am well,” in answer. From a bit further
down the bench, she caught a barely audible chuckle coming from
Guy, and Robert made a distinctly un-holy hand gesture at him low
enough so the priest could not see, which caused Guy to snort, then
pretend to cough behind his hand, which, of course, made him the
next target for the priest’s baleful gaze, which then, again of
course, made her husband sit back with his arms folded and with a
satisfied grin upon his visage. Robert’s nine-year-old nephew,
David, who was seated on Robert’s other side, leaned forward and
grinned at both his uncle and their Norman neighbor, and Morgana
pressed a finger to her lips, indicating he should be still and
quiet. The smile dissolved and he settled back again.
Lads!
They were naught
more than unruly lads. But they were hers, and she loved them all.
Quietly, she slid her hand onto Robert’s thigh and was set aglow
when he took it in his and twined their fingers together. It took
everything within her not to sigh and settle her head on his
shoulder.

Thankfully, the remainder of the wedding
service held the solemnity it deserved, and when ‘twas over, they
rose from their seats and proceeded from the chapel behind the
couple. Once her mother and father were seated in their places at
the long table upon the dais in the great hall, and the wine had
been poured into all of the cups, Robert raised his high and said,
“The clan MacVie has much to be thankful for, but let us this night
lift our cups to Morgunn and Gwynlyan!” and all about them shouted
“Aye!” then drained their vessels in one long pull. Morgana could
not help but smile in absolute pride. Aye, another man might have
said much more, but for Robert, that public address was a true
accomplishment. Recalling how ill at ease he had been at their own
wedding feast, she, at least, could see the transformation in him,
and knew the toll such a change was taking on him as well.

In fact, when he sat down, she could see
clearly the sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip, and was
struck again with pride for him. She leaned in and placed a kiss on
his cheek, saying, “Well done, my love, well done.”

He shrugged self-consciously, and dug into
the trencher, spearing a large piece of venison with his knife,
then shoveling it into his mouth.

Her heart fluttered and
she swallowed a sigh. He was just so wonderful. Truly, she felt so
blessed. She sent a silent
thank
you
for about the millionth time to her
absent cousin Vika for giving her the chance to be with Robert that
first time.

“I love you.” She only
realized she’d said it aloud when Robert stopped chewing and turned
his warm silver gaze upon her. She watched his throat work as he
swallowed, saw his expression gentle, heard him murmur gruffly, “I
love you, too,” before he leaned over and settled upon her mouth a
not-so-chaste kiss. As his tongue caressed hers, her blood heated,
and, held captive by his virile will, she could do naught but
delight in the heated embrace. After a long moment, and from what
seemed a thousand miles away, came the shouts and slamming down of
flagons on tabletops by their guests. From closer still, came her
father’s familiar voice saying, “This is
our
feast, remember you
that?”

Morgana grinned and so did Robert, but he
kept kissing her anyway, which seemed to cause much mirth in David,
for she heard the bell-like laddish giggles begin behind Robert’s
broad shoulders. Finally, she broke away, breathless, but with her
spirits floating above her. The only thing that would make this
feast even more perfect would be to have Vika and Grímr, and their
newborn son, Hildrgrímr, here with them as well. Why had Vika not
sent her the letter herself? Why had Grímr sent the letter to
Robert, and not her? The letter they’d received a few days past had
been brief, with naught more than the tidings of the recent birth;
that the babe had the look of Grímr, with pale-hair, blue-eye, and
was hearty and hale; and that Vika was doing well within its text.
Men were so vexing! Did they not know that ladies craved a full
account of such things? She had already begun a long letter to Vika
herself, and Morgana would beg for an answer to all her questions
quickly, and in return.