Morgan (Brethren Origins Book 4)

by Barbara Devlin

  “I know not.” Isolde resumed her labor.

  “I beg your pardon?” So his grand scheme failed before it even started.

  “I know not, as your lady contents herself with whatever she is presented.” Isolde tore off a piece of dough and smashed it flat, and he gulped. “She expresses no desires of any kind, and I supposed it was because you forbade it.”

  “Nay, Isolde, as I would never do that to her.” And he pondered Hawisia’s strange behavior. Then again, as he reflected on her conversations, on her duties, and her everyday demeanor, he noted something that had heretofore escaped him. “But you are right. She neither complains nor commends, and I am at a loss to explain wherefore she would exhibit such odd habits.”

  “Perchance, it is because she believes you care not for her welfare.” Isolde picked up the dough and threw it to the table. “Have you done anything to correct the notion? Or are you preoccupied with your own wants, as usual?”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it.

  “Prithee, Isolde, I am your servant.” Morgan knelt at her feet. “Tell me what to do.”

  ~

  As eventide approached, and day yielded to night, Hawisia checked her appearance in the long mirror and walked into the small solar, which was once another accommodation. But after she arrived with her new husband, Arucard had the door moved, to create a larger chamber. It was a thoughtful touch that she appreciated, given Morgan evidenced no interest in her, and she expected naught.

  To her surprise and confusion, Margery and Anne set the table for a meal.

  “Good eventide, Lady Hawisia.” The housekeeper curtseyed. “Lady Isolde bade me inform you that your presence is not required in the great hall, and you are to sup hither, with Sir Morgan, at his request.”

  “I am?” Hawisia blinked, because he never exhibited any desire to spend time with her. “Wherefore?”

  “Who knows wherefore men do what they do.” Margery chuckled, as she placed two trenchers, filled with savory fare. “There is a basket of fresh bryndons, pykes in brasey, buttered wortes, mushrooms in broth, and some of Isolde’s rosemary bread.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Unaccustomed to being idle, she drew the covered pots from the tray and situated them on the table. “Whither is Sir Morgan?”

  “Oh, he sent these for you, my lady.” Anne positioned a vase filled with a mix of marigolds, daisies, foxglove, and snowdrops, at center. “And there is a lovely potage of roysons.”

  “Sir Morgan’s favorite sweetmeat.” Of course, he would have requested that. “Grammarcy.”

  “My lady, I wondered of your preferences, as I could prepare a delicious sambocade or an apple muse, if you like.” Margery dismissed the maid. “And you need only state your choice for meat, fish, pork, or poultry, and I will add it to the menu.”

  “That is not necessary, as my needs are few, I will eat whatever you put before me, and I will be grateful for the food.” Just as she sat on the bench, her husband entered the solar. “Good eventide, my lord.”

  “My lady.” He sketched a bow. “Margery, as always, you have outdone yourself, and I am in your debt.”

  “You are most welcome, Sir Morgan.” Margery curtseyed. “I bid you both a pleasant eventide, and Anne will clear the dishes, tonight, before she retires.”

  Alone with her husband, Hawisia knew not how to respond to his curious behavior. “My lord, had you told me of your fondness for flowers, I would have collected a bouquet.”

  “My dear, you mistake my meaning, as they are a gift for you.” With a single finger, he tipped her chin and then kissed her. “Do they please you?”

  “They are beauteous.” As a dutiful wife, she served him generous portions. “What is the occasion?”

  “Do I need a reason to give my wife a small offering that might bring a smile to her appealing face?” He perched on the opposite bench, raked his fingers through his hair, still wet from a bath, and grinned. “I washed at the garrison, so I would not disturb your slumber. Isolde told me you visited the peasant’s village, and you required a nap. Do you often venture to the hovels?”

  “They are poor, weak, and vulnerable.” Again, to her amazement, Morgan poured her wine and filled his tankard with ale, when he never tended himself, much less her. “I would help whither I can, as I am able and benefit from a bountiful existence.”

  “That is very commendable.” He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth. “What else did you do today?”

  “You wish for me to account for my time?” As Hawisia stared at the fish in her trencher, her mind raced. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Nay, my dear. I just thought it would be nice to talk.” Morgan narrowed his stare. “How is your meal? Do you have a particular affinity for buttered wortes?”

  “Everything is fine, my lord.” Except for him, and she pondered all manner of possible excuses for his strange behavior. “And I eat what I am given.”

  “Sensible woman.” He licked his lips. “Ah, I see Isolde prepared a potage of roysons. She is too good to me. Do you enjoy the sweetmeat?”

  “Aye, my lord.” Perplexed by his peculiar questions, she toyed with a bite of pyke. “But I can forgo a serving, that you might have more.”

  “Hawisia, that is not my motive.” Shaking his head, he sighed. “I am merely trying to become better acquainted with you, if you would only let me.”

  “Wherefore?” Wiping her hands, she draped her napkin in her lap, because she desperately required a distraction.

  “Because I should know you, and I do not.” Resting elbows atop the table, he frowned. “His Majesty commanded us to marry and create a family, and I would fulfill his directive. However, as your husband, I should know your favorite flower. I should know what sweetmeat you savor, and what roots make you wrinkle your endearing little nose.”

  At his absurd declaration, she laughed. “So this is a matter of duty?”

  “I suppose, if you put it that way.” He shrugged, and she could understand how so many women fell victim to his charms, as he was beyond handsome. “Whither is the harm in sharing part of yourself with me?”

  His was a difficult question, as it required her to become an active participant in his world, and that terrified her. Given his indifference, and his stated preference for her sister, Hawisia viewed his proposal as another attack on her person.

  As long as he kept his distance, and she functioned as a maid, of sorts, she could survive. But she feared forming any attachment, because she just might want more, and he was incapable of giving her what she truly wanted. What every woman dreamed of, as a young girl.

  Love.

  Thus, she never let the thought enter her mind.

  “So you want to know my schedule, my food partialities, and my favored flower, but naught more?” If she could define boundaries, she could survive in the confines of her limited existence—never hoping for more.

  “All right.” As she reached for the potage, he grabbed her wrist.

  “Wait.” After pushing aside his empty trencher, he drew the sweetmeat close. “Come hither.”

  “Wherefore?”

  “Hawisia, I will not ask again.” Then Morgan groaned. “My dear, I am trying. Is it too much to ask you to cooperate?”

  Without a word, she obeyed. When she stood at his side, he slapped his thighs, and she pretended not to know what he wanted, despite the fact that she had seen Arucard greet Isolde in the same manner. Finally, Morgan arched a brow and snapped his fingers. Huffing a breath, she eased to his lap, gritting her teeth against a groan of frustration.

  “There.” He cupped her bottom, and she swallowed a shriek, as he had done that before. “Is this not more comfortable?”

  “I prefer the bench.” When he held a morsel of the potage, she glanced at him, and he winked. Against her better judgment, she opened her mouth, and he fed her.

  “How is that, my dear Hawisia?” He consumed a huge bite.

  “Delicious, my lord.” Still, she did not apprehend
his actions. Little by little, he tended her, until she pressed a hand to her belly and shook her head. “Prithee, I can eat no more.”

  “Then let us take to our bed and make love.” Lifting her in his arms, he carried her into their bedchamber. “And from now on, I would have you call me by my given name, as you always summon me with Sir Morgan or my lord, and it displeases me.”

  “Aye, my lord—I mean, Morgan.” As was their custom, she gave him her back, and he untied her laces. Given his professed disdain for nightgowns, she slept naked, which provided unimpeded access to her body.

  To his credit, he disrobed her in the blink of an eye, and then he all but ripped off his garb. As she perched on her knees, he stunned her, when he smacked her bottom and said, “Tonight, I would have you on your back.”

  MORGAN

  CHAPTER FIVE

  On a clear and sunny morrow, Morgan loaded provisions into a wagon, for Hawisia’s daily trip to the hovels. Resolved to spend time with his bride, to become better acquainted with her, he took an active interest in her schedule, as his permitted. Given Arucard’s reluctance to hear Morgan’s ideas on farming techniques, he preferred his bride’s company to the frustration of Arucard’s.

  “Morgan, I have packed a delicious meal for you and Hawisia.” Isolde carried a bundle, which she passed to him. “There is a beauteous view of the ocean from the top of the hill, just south of the main road to Chichester. Do you know it?”

  “Aye.” He tied the parcel to the saddle of his destrier. “What of it?”

  “It is a perfect place to stop for a respite with Hawisia, whither you can share the food and conversation.” Then she stepped closer. In a low voice, she said, “And it is private, as must needs for connubial games.”

  “Really?” He gave vent to a snort of mirth but quickly sobered, given her stern expression. Still, he would have never imagined Arucard engaging in such salacious behavior. “I get your meaning, Isolde, and I am grateful for your counsel.”

  “And have Hawisia ride with you, as opposed to aboard the wagon, as it will foster intimacy for your outing.” She glanced at his bride and frowned. “I know not wherefore she resists your overtures, but your lady nurses deep wounds, which she has yet to share with me.”

  “I am equally perplexed, as I have tried everything I can think of, yet nothing yields the usual results.” He shook his head. “Although I admire her strength, she wields it against me as a most vicious weapon, but I will not surrender the fight, as I am just as stubborn.”

  And he had a new motivation, which he suspected with shock even Isolde, because somewhere in the process of wooing his wife, Morgan developed an attachment to her, and no one was more surprised than him. Yet Hawisia remained indifferent, and her lack of enthusiasm hurt him more than he was willing to admit to himself or anyone else.

  In some respects, it was as though his childhood played out, all over again, and he found himself aboard another coach, bound for a place he dreaded. But he was no longer a boy, and the man could wage battle for that which he desired. And he wanted Hawisia to love him.

  “My lord, are you sure you wish to accompany me to the hovels?” Ah, his lady appeared in the courtyard. Garbed in a kirtle and cotehardie of deep burgundy, the color emphasized her light amber hair, which was neither blonde nor dark brown, and shimmered in the sun. “Because I am accustomed to making my visits alone or with Isolde, and I have no need of your escort.”

  “But I have a need to spend some time with my beauteous bride.” At his compliment, she blushed, and he cherished her characteristic modesty. “Would you deny me?”

  “Nay, my lord.” Of course, she denied him nothing. Whatever he asked of her, whatever he required she fulfilled his every whim, without complaint. Yet she refused to grant him the one thing he wanted most—her heart. “Shall we depart?”

  “Aye.” When she stepped toward the wagon, he drew her to his destrier. “If you do not object, I would have you share my mount.”

  “Oh?” She blinked, and he coveted her discomfit, as she was not so immune to his advances, as she would have him believe. “Wherefore? Winter is passed, and we do not travel far.”

  “Because I wish it.” He lifted her to the saddle and then jumped to sit behind her. When she fidgeted, he shuffled her to his lap and cupped her bottom, which garnered one of her sweet little gasps, and he chuckled. “Now, is that not more comfortable?” Before she could answer, he kissed her, hard and fast, flicked the reins, and heeled the flanks of his stallion.

  Together, they navigated the barbican and the outer gatehouse, and then he let fly his horse, as they charged the road, and Hawisia wrapped her arms about his waist and held on tight.

  Maintaining a relentless pace, with an accompaniment of soldiers and two attendants staffing the wagon in his wake, Morgan rested his head to her plaited locks and inhaled her subtle scent of rosemary water, which she favored. To his infinite gratitude, she pressed a couple of delicate kissed to his neck, as they rode, and he bent and indulged in a few tender exchanges, until the peasant village came into view.

  A small crowd surrounded the wagon, as they drew to a halt amid the rustic dwelling, some of which were naught more than a few pieces of wood propped together. Children covered in dirt and grime circled about, as Morgan lifted Hawisia from the saddle, and he was stunned by the amount of poverty and hunger evidenced in the community.

  “This is a travesty.” He assisted his wife, as she filled various cups and containers with rice, dried herbs, and flour. “Does Arucard know of the situation?”

  “Of course, as Lady Isolde normally joins me.” Hawisia passed out several blankets. “Wherefore do you think he sends these provisions? But the great famine left behind a mountain of devastation, and he struggles to produce enough to fill the needs of those in his charge, yet he cannot control nature.”

  “And still he rebuffs my attempts to increase the yield.” He swore under his breath. “It is ridiculous, when I possess knowledge that could bring an end to so much hardship.”

  “Oh?” She waved to a soldier. “Prithee, have the people collect their refuse, and set fire to it, as such waste can harbor disease.”

  “Aye, Lady Hawisia.” The soldier directed his men.

  “You are very organized in your effort, my lady wife.” Morgan recalled Arucard’s counsel and realized a simple truth. As the leader of the Brethren rightly asserted, Hawisia could be the greatest weapon in Morgan’s arsenal, once they had their own estate, and her confidence earned his respect, in that moment. “What else do you manage, if I may ask?”

  “Well, I arrange for the physic to treat the sick and the wounded, as illness can be even more lethal than hunger.” She paused to assess a scraped knee and said to a lad, “It is just a scratch, but I would have you keep it washed and clean, else it may become inflamed.”

  “Aye, Lady Hawisia.” The scamp bowed and ran to play with his friends.

  Once they emptied the wagon, Hawisia listened to the peasants’ complaints and requests and vowed to speak with Arucard, on their behalf. After cataloging a list of patients, she promised to send the physic from Chichester Castle, the following day, and thus they departed.

  On the main road, Morgan noted the particular hill Isolde recommended as a place to take his ease, and he drew rein and pulled to the verge. “Drive on, as my lady and I shall stop hither.”

  “Aye, Sir Morgan.” A soldier nodded once, and the small procession continued its return to the castle.

  “My lord, what are you about?” Hawisia sat upright in his lap. “Are you unwell, as you do not behave as yourself?”

  “Naught is wrong.” As he traversed the rise, and the ocean spread wide before him, he realized the lay of the land afforded seclusion, and he knew exactly wherefore Arucard brought Isolde to that spot. “But I would partake of a meal, and then I would take you.”

  ~

  Hawisia knew not what to make of Morgan’s strange declaration, as it made no sense. When he pulled her fro
m the saddle, his sly smile did naught but confuse her. Of course, naught about the day struck her as normal, because he never expressed interest in her activities.

  Except, that was not true.

  For some reason she could not fathom, her husband had become increasingly attentive to her daily routine. And his new habit of making love, face to face, left her little opportunity for escape. It was so easy to remain detached, as long as he shoved her nose into the pillows, so she did not have to look at him.

  “Darling, will you unpack our meal, while I spread the blanket?” Morgan handed her a bundle. “Is that view not spectacular? I think we should come hither, more often.”

  “You do?” She blinked and then did as he bade.

  Inside the parcel, she found an ample square of cheese, grapes, dried beef, a half-loaf of bread, and vast deal more than adequate portion of sambocade cheesecake. “Did you plan this?”

  “I wish I could take credit for it, but it was Isolde’s idea.” He winked. “Still, she knows of my desire to spend time with you, so I claim some responsibility.”

  “You, sir, are shameless.” In light of his good mood, she laughed and relaxed. “And I wonder if you might tell me of your ideas for farming. I thought you were a sea captain, prior to journeying to England.”

  “Ah, but there is more I might share with you, dear Hawisia.” There it was again, a playful term of endearment, which he had taken to using, of late, and it had not eluded her notice. “Indeed, I am not what you think, as I have a tragic history, which I will impart if you pledge to maintain my secret.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Before she knew she had moved, she reached out and took his hand.

  “I wish you would call me Morgan.” He furrowed his brow. “I wish you would compose a pet name for me, as Isolde refers to Arucard, as Athelyna summons Demetrius, and as Dionysia beckons Aristide. Am I not dear to you?”

  “You stun me with your bold query, as I did not believe you welcomed such intimacies.” Yet the hurt in his countenance struck her as a wicked blow, and she reconsidered her tack. “Perchance, I might devise something, just for you. Pray, let us continue our discussion, which I must confess tempts me.”