by Jackie Ivie
“You do. Well, not loudly, but you had that great grin on your face, and a bit of a rumble to your breath, and it was perfect! You should have seen the look on his face! It was priceless!”
The bed was shaking with Sally Bess’s amusement. Morgan lay in the midst of it and tried to keep her eyeballs from aching as much as her tongue.
Zander FitzHugh was as good as his word, and not only was a fresh outfit delivered, but the Earl of Argylle had food delivered four times that day, instead of three, and a warmed bath sent up, too. He was also offering a pick of his stallions to Morgan, should she stay and favor them with an exhibition of skean-throwing. Morgan sat in her hipbath and considered it.
She’d never had luxury of any kind, and Sally Bess had washed and pinned her hair atop her head and even scrubbed her back. The woman had also had the audacity to stage more graphic rounds of physical lust. Morgan had to put her hands over her ears to shut it out as the woman hollered and moaned and jumped on the mattress to make the proper sounds for what seemed like hours that evening, and thrice more through the night.
Now, it was morning again, and time to face everyone. Morgan waited until Sally Bess finished her braid, tucked it along her back and gave her nod of approval to Morgan’s entire outfit. Then, she opened her chamber door and proceeded to announce to the world that she needed some time off.
There was an audience all down the hall, and more on the steps, and Morgan swaggered as much as possible through all the whistles and applause. She even managed to keep her face from flaming.
Zander had a look of murder about him when she saw him, and he wasn’t even looking for her. Actually she knew he was looking for her, but doing his best to act like he wasn’t. Morgan sauntered across the parade ground to join him.
“You are a worthless squire, Morgan,” he began.
She stepped back a step and didn’t need to act confused. Her entire body was in that state.
“Do you still have your dirks?”
“Of course,” she replied.
“And the dragon blade? You let that harlot get her fingers on that?”
“I—” She stopped for a moment. How was she supposed to answer that? Either answer was bad.
“You lost it?”
“Of course not! I have it, just like I have all my dirks. I would na’ lose them.”
“You were stewed in ale and falling-down drunk. How do you know what you lost and what you didn’t?”
“I dinna’ lose a thing.”
“You lost your innocence, dinna’ you?”
Morgan wasn’t about to lie. She had to resort to a shrug. “What of it?” she asked.
“What of it? This innocence? You can only give it once, and I recall hearing all about the woman you were going to have. Not take, mind you. Well, blast it all, Morgan! You didn’t have, or take. The fat harlot did the having and the taking. You were like butter to her and probably as satisfying.”
“Now, that’s not true,” Morgan responded.
Zander favored her with a side-long glance. The midnight-blue of his eyes was vivid and intense with the red-tone to his face. He was so angered, he was flushing? she wondered.
“It’s true.” He ran fingers through his hair, shuffling it again on his shoulders and then faced her. “I thought you were different, but you’re not. You’re like everyone else, aren’t you?”
“I’m human,” she answered.
“Yes. Yes, you are. Congratulations. Welcome to Hell.”
Morgan would rather he just hit her and be done. “Hell?” she whispered.
“I was actually beginning to think you might be an angel, Morgan. An angel on earth. A vengeful, killing angel, but an angel, none-the-less. I’m a little disappointed to find out I was wrong.”
“No one is an angel, Zander.”
“No doubt about that, is there? I’ve the proof standing right in front of me,” he replied.
“I never said I was anything other than what I appeared.” It was true, she told herself.
“True enough. And appearances can be deceiving. You also said that. Angelic face, human needs.”
“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” she mumbled. She was, too. She should have stayed at his side and hidden in his chamber, and since they were both so drunk they were almost caressing each other on the floor in front of witnesses, they most certainly wouldn’t have stopped once they got to his chamber. She was smart enough to know that. She and Zander would have been intimate. They would have been very intimate. She wondered if that was why he was angry. He wanted her...or he wanted the Morgan he knew.
“You did more than disappoint me, lad, you’ve put soil all over my ideal. I had you up on a pedestal, and right now I’m swallowing a very vinegary potion of my own making about it.”
“I’ve never claimed to be perfect.”
“Well, you’re are na’, either. You lost perfection when you let that harlot cart you off.”
“I could na’ stop her. Why dinna’ you stop her if it meant so much?”
He sighed. “I dinna’ know what I felt then. I know now. I knew when I looked down at your angelic face in the filth of her bed.”
“I’ve na’ lost my innocence, Zander,” Morgan whispered, finally.
“You lost more than that, lad. You lost all your clothing, too. That constitutes quite a loss to me. Now, you owe me for another set. Your servitude time has been doubled.”
“Oh,” Morgan replied. It was all she could think of.
“And after all your words about how you’d save yourself for the bonniest of lasses, a nymphet that looks like our Sheila, and what was all that? Posturing?”
“It was—”
“It was the idealism of youth, and I thought it true. Stupid me.”
“I doona’ understand this,” Morgan whispered.
“What’s to understand? I fell in love with an ideal. A youth above all that’s earthy and wicked and lustful, and what happens? It gets tossed in my face by a fat harlot.”
“Sally Bess is more than that.”
“Of course you’d defend her now. I’m not even surprised.”
“But...you told them to find a lass for me. I heard you.”
“I dinna’ mean it. I would never have sent you off to find release in a whore’s body. You’re so much more special than that. I’d have found the perfect receptacle for you.”
Morgan felt his complete and total censure, and was so close to tears, she hoped he wouldn’t hear it in her voice. She didn’t know what was wrong with him. “There is no perfect receptacle for me, Zander,” she whispered, and it was almost inaudible. She knew he heard it as his jaw tightened, sending a nerve out the side.
“This little talk is getting us nowhere, and I’ve work to do.”
“What is it? I’ll assist.”
“My squire, Martin, tends me well enough. I could hardly wait for you, now could I? While all else is falling down about my ears, you’re locked in with a wench, fulfilling your fantasies. Not once, mind you, but four, or was it, five times? You’re insatiable. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“It was five,” Morgan finally said.
He glared at her. “And I thought you were different. Stupid me.”
He turned his back on her and stalked away. Morgan looked down at the grass where he’d been standing, and watched as it sprang back from his footprint. She didn’t know whether to follow him, or not. Martin was squiring him? Did that mean she was supposed to be squiring Plato, then? She supposed she should have asked it when she had the chance.
“Your presence is requested at the earl’s private rooms, Squire Morgan.”
Morgan looked over at the small lad that stood there, an arm out and a towel draped over it for some silly reason. She frowned. “Now?” she asked.
He nodded.
She looked after Zander’s retreating back and sighed. She obviously wasn’t needed by him. She followed the earl’s servant, her fingers flying to the three dirks at her back and the dr
agon blade at her stomach, caressing her muscles there.
If the earl wanted a knife-tossing exhibition, she’d give him one, but only if her master approved it. Morgan took the steps easily, only the slightest ache in her back, and then found herself in such stuffy luxury, she couldn’t breathe.
The earl hadn’t dressed yet, and his close-cropped head looked strange without a wig. He looked her over from his position lounging on his bed, then be beckoned her closer.
“I have heard of your prowess, lad,” he said.
She colored uneasily, wondering which prowess he was referring to.
“And I wish to purchase your talents for myself. Name your price. I will pay it.”
“I belong to Zander FitzHugh,” she replied.
“FitzHugh can be dealt with later. Name a price, so I know how much. Together, we’ll make a fortune in London. They’ll pay so much to watch you, it will be like robbery.”
“I belong to Zander FitzHugh, and my talents are his to sell.”
He sighed, and waved his hand at another lad holding a cloth over his arm. “Send for FitzHugh.” He waved the boy out. Then he turned back to Morgan. “I don’t like arguing.” he said.
She swallowed nervously and waited. Please Zander? Please don’t sell me to this great buffoon. Please? The litany of her plea went on and on, gaining in cadence with her fretting. Zander arrived within moments. Morgan wondered how they’d found him so fast. Although he had a shuttered look about him, Morgan could tell he was worried. She could only guess about what.
“The lad will not toss a knife unless you approve it, FitzHugh, nor will he come into my service. I do not know where you find such loyal servants, but I wish to purchase the lad’s services for my own. Order it.”
Zander looked at Morgan. She had her eyes wide and was shaking her head with a quick, hummingbird-type motion, so it wouldn’t be as easy to spot.
“Morgan will toss for you on my terms. You’ve offered a stallion from your stables. I accept. Otherwise, I doona’. The lad’s talents are not for sale, not for any amount of silver and not at any time. Morgan? Go to my chamber. Prepare yourself for the exhibition. You’ll have a chance to use all your weapons. Put out the word, Argylle. Invite your Sassenach friends. I would like to show what a real Scotsman can do. Morgan? Why are you still standing there? I gave you an order. And another thing, my lord. About the fencing duel the other eve. I believe....”
Morgan didn’t hear another word. She was racing to Zander’s chamber.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Castle Argylle was filled to the crenellations with humanity, and more seemed to keep arriving, and no one had asked, or would let her exhibit anything, and it had been four days. Days when Zander wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Days when she’d had to caress the dragon blade’s hilt whenever she caught his eyes on her. Days when he’d be laughing and charming, and then sullen and moody. Those were the days he was drinking.
Those days were the worst.
Morgan felt pulled taut, much like the string of a bow, and on the fifth day, she knew she had to get out. The castle’s walls were thick, solid, and stifling, and the bowstring she felt she was becoming, was at the peak of flex and due to snap.
She walked out of Zander’s chamber with the remainders of the previous night’s feast, and tripped over one of the bodies in the hall. Dishes went flying, lads of all ages and description started up to stare at her, and several of them grabbed for her dirtied flagons and the tray, before begging her to allow them to serve her.
Begging? she wondered. Morgan backed into Zander’s chamber and slammed the door.
“What is it lad? Enemy inside the walls?”
He probably thought he was being amusing. Morgan glared at his reclining figure beneath the off-white, cut-work linens. “’Tis a village full of lads in the hall.”
“The entire castle is crawling with lads, Morgan. And lasses. Let’s not forget the bloom of them.”
Morgan stiffened. “I care not about that. Why? When is the exhibition, and when can we be gone from here?”
“Be gone? Why? The earl brews excellent mead, his kitchen is more than capable, and his entertainment...well, they leave nothing wanting, now do they, lad? Or was Sally Bess taken?”
“We’ve been prisoners for almost a sennight, FitzHugh. I doona’ ken why.”
“The earl wants to make certain his Sassenach friends arrive. I heard it. They’re setting up quite a contest. Takes time.”
“I have changed my mind. I doona’ wish to compete,” Morgan complained.
“You have no choice now, lad. I spoke for you. Calm yourself and get me another mead.”
“I canna’ step from the chamber without running over bodies. ’Tis denser than the worst battle-field. What fairy has stolen Argylle’s wits? Surely there are encampments for these lads.”
“There are camps all over outside the walls, Morgan, but everyone wants to be here.”
“Why?”
He raised onto an elbow to study her. She should have been in the kitchens by now and then she wouldn’t have to see that great span of chest, naked and immense, and contrasting nicely with the off-white shade of his sheets. Morgan turned her face aside and hoped he wouldn’t spot the blush. It was a forlorn hope.
“You rosy up pretty well for a broke-in lad, Squire Morgan. I would na’ have believed it. Nor, I might add, would all your followers.”
“What followers?”
She looked back to ask it. She shouldn’t have. He was sitting now, his arms on his knees and not one stitch on. As many times as she’d seen him thus, it was still bothersome, and she backed before she could help it.
“The lads camped at your stoop. You doona’ think they stay for me, do you?”
“I have no followers. ’Tis stupid of you to think so. There must be no other room for them.”
“Morgan, if I dinna’ think you serious, I’d accuse you of vanity for wanting me to notice. They are your followers. They wait for a glimpse of the young squire that bested Lord Cantor’s best swordsmen. Worse, the rest of my servants have been regaling them with tales of your hunting skill.”
“I doona’ wish to be talked of that way.”
“Worse still,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “are the lasses. They’ve been listening to that Sally Bess. You show the same prowess between a lass’s legs as you do on the field of battle. You’re becoming quite a legend. Why, you’ve only to look a maiden’s way, and you’ll have your pick. I would na’ take that Sally Bess again, though. She has na’ kept to herself. Why, just last eve—”
“Will you cease this? I will na’ be talked of! I will na’ be discussed this way!”
“You will na’ that, you will na’ this. Fame is uncaring of your desires, lad. Someone should have forewarned you.”
“Zander, I need to get outside.”
“Open the drape. ’Tis airless in here anyway.”
“You doona’ ken! I have to get outside! I have to! I am being held hostage, and I dinna’ do anything!” She knew her voice was rising, but couldn’t stay it. She was barely holding in the tears.
“You bested an English champion. You sliced open his clothing, and then pinned him uselessly to the ground by it. You didn’t harm a hair on his head, and yet humiliated him, so he will na’ show his face. Now you say you dinna’ do anything? The clans have awaited a champion like you for years. Mayhap longer than that.”
“I doona’ wish this,” she whispered.
He waited for her to look over at him before he answered. “What is it you do wish, then?”
“I wish to go hunting.”
His eyebrows rose. “Hunting?”
“Surely the earl needs meat to feed all these guests. Surely there is game in yonder forest, or I’ll go further afield.”
“All true, but why? You need to take life that badly?”
Morgan’s eyes moistened, but she didn’t blink. She was hoping he wouldn’t notice. “I need to feel alive,” she
answered finally.
“Fetch me my clothing. You wish to hunt? We’ll hunt.”
He stood. Morgan backed to the wall.
“I canna’,” she whispered.
“Canna’...or will na’?” he asked.
It wasn’t a blush any longer, it was full-out fire licking at her cheeks. She looked above him. She looked at the floor. She looked to both sides of him. She looked at the door. She closed her eyes for a moment, and started all over again. Above him, the floor...and all she saw was the immensity of Zander FitzHugh. “Canna’,” she answered finally.
“Morgan?”
His voice lowered and then he was walking toward her. Morgan had a hand to the dragon blade at the same time she slid to the chamber door. Her movements stopped him in his tracks.
“I’ll await you outside,” she whispered and slid out before he could stop her.
She was surrounded by more lads than she could count, and all clamoring to be near, touch, and possibly serve her. One actually asked if she needed a squire. A squire to a squire? she wondered.
She was back in the chamber before Zander had his under-tunic pulled down. The door slammed behind her and he looked over. Then he laughed. Morgan knew her eyes were huge. “I have decided to await you in here, FitzHugh,” she said.
“You having a bit of trouble with your popularity?”
“I dinna’ ask for it and I will na’ accept it. I want them to go. Make them go.”
“I canna.”
“You are my master. You must protect me. I dinna’ wish followers. I will na’ accept this fame. I will na’!”
Zander yanked on his shirt, hooked his belt, had his feile-breacan on, and was sitting to pull on his boots before he spoke to her again. Morgan watched every movement, every time the sinew beneath the skin twinged in his forearms, every time he drew breath with that great chest, and she wondered what it would feel like to be in those arms, and against that chest, and protected by someone else for the first time in her life. She shook her head to clear it.
“I don’t see much choice for you, Morgan. I canna’ send your followers away.”
“You have to keep them away from me, though. You have to!”
