Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “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 doona’ 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.

  “Morgan! 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. “Begone all of you! Now!”

  There was another heave on the wood; Sally got louder. Zander called Morgan’s name again. He cursed again. Another heave came against the door.

  “I said begone!”

  Morgan didn’t know who he was using that orator voice on. He was definitely using it, since she could hear every word. Then, he was hitting the door again.

  “Morgan, as God is my witness, I’ll have every hair on your head. Every, damned hair!”

  Sally screamed. The door bolt splintered, and Morgan actually watched it break apart with what looked like slow motion. There was no one with him, and no one in the hall, either. Then she met Zander’s incredulous look as he took in the scene, followed by the most genuine amusement she’d ever heard.

  His bow was mocking, his order for her to carry on, just as much so, and his laughter as he put the door back in place was worse. All in all, it had to be the most embarrassing morning of her life.

  ~ ~ ~

  The crowds were as thick as before, although this time Morgan bowed to all, starting with the galleries of nobles, and ending with the serfs, Zander at her side. The garments he’d had fashioned for her were making her glow in the afternoon sun, and whenever she lifted an arm, shifted stance, or swiveled, silver glinted in pinpricks of light. She caught them every so often.

  She was doing her best to ignore Sally Bess’s smug face and all the other lasses who were twittering every time she looked their way. She also ignored Zander’s betrothed, sitting on the stand beside her father, and with the newly crowned King of Scotland, Robert the Bruce, on her other side. He wasn’t as prepossessing as she’d envisioned, but he was regal. That much couldn’t be mistaken.

  And she was having trouble with Zander’s eyes on her every move, and those midnight-blue eyes were alight with more glow than the silver could possibly have.

  It made her hand shake for a moment before she stopped it.

  “Step forward, Squire Morgan of the FitzHugh clan. Greet your sovereign.”

  Morgan bowed low, Zander at her side.

  “I hear there is no one as good as you are, Squire Morgan. I look forward to seeing this, in fact. It is a good thing in the Scotland I now rule, weapons are again allowed. Isna’ that right, my lords?”

  The king turned to those about him for assent.

  “You have to watch closely then, Sire,” Zander informed him from Morgan’s side, “for Morgan has the gift of lightning to his hands, and the speed of wind to his blades. This will be the exhibition.”

  They had discussed it the prior evening, and she listened to him describe what she was going to show. Her lips twisted and she glanced away the moment her eyes touched Plato’s, sitting behind Zander’s betrothed. She colored.

  It was a good thing she and Zander had discussed what series she would follow since she was still not talking to him since the bath. She may never talk to him again, she decided.

  The king nodded, and Morgan raised from her bow.

  “You may begin, Morgan. Doona’ look at me like that. You have lightened my heart from a cartload of heaviness. This may well be the best day of my life.”

  Zander was whispering it to her, but that only made it worse. The embarrassment, at least, she could handle.

  Morgan’s weaponry were all in a semi-circle in the midst of all four targets, and she stopped for a moment, to pick her starting point. The crowd ceased to exist, the king ceased to be of import, and all she could see was Zander’s perfect, midnight-blue eyes. She picked up the claymore and began.

  She had arranged four of every weapon, one for each target, and she went in a seemingly faultless motion through each, pivoting back and forth, first to the first target, pick up a weapon, then the third target. Then, the second, finally the fourth. If she placed the claymore in the center, the next weapon went right below it. The arrows went to the right, the hand-axes to the left, the skean dhu to the top, and finally, three dirks to each target in the seemingly nonexistent space between the already-planted weapons. The entire exhibition took less time than one previous contest had, and when she placed the last dirk, she went to her knees with her arms wide.

  The roar of the crowd was what reached her first, and then Zander was at her side, waiting for her to rise and join him. She only met his eyes once, and the glow was warmer, more personal, more frightening. He said something, but she didn’t hear it. The crowd’s roar made it impossible. Then, he was escorting her back to where the king sat beside the earl, and the lovely Gwynneth.

  Morgan touched glances with the girl, and saw the same hero-worship gaze every other lass was looking at her with. It was unnerving. There was something else in the girl’s gaze, too. It wasn’t easy to decipher what it was, and then she knew. She’d seen it often enough in the hag’s eyes. Gwynneth was unhappy, desperately so. Unhappy? Morgan wondered.

  She didn’t have time to puzzle it, for Plato’s gaze on her was completely unnerving. Morgan told herself she didn’t care. Plato was an annoying, inquisitive, bothersome man. She didn’t care what he thought of her, or what he thought he was doing.

  “Your betrothed seems a bit...quieter, Zander,” she told his shoulders as he led them back to his chamber, leaving clansmen and her followers behind. No one wanted to miss the feasting and revelry. No one except the Squire Morgan.

&
nbsp; “I have moved the wedding up,” Zander swung his head to inform her. “I have said I will na’ wait. I will take her to wife in three days. She is properly quieted by it, I would say.”

  “You moved the wedding up?”

  “Aye. ’Twas no effort, with the earl. He is still trying to sweeten me enough to part with your servitude to him.”

  “I will na’ serve him.”

  “I know that. You know that. He does na’. He thinks silver buys everything. He has been around the Sassenach too much. ’Tis the way they think.”

  “But...three days, Zander? Only three?”

  “Three days, Morgan. ’Tis all the sooner he would move it.”

  “You wanted it sooner? Why?”

  “You canna’ guess?”

  He opened the door and waited for her to enter. Morgan felt rooted to the spot with pulse-pounding ache. FitzHugh would be lost to her in three days. She couldn’t stay with him once the wedding was over. She didn’t dare. She was afraid of the heart-wrenching loss. She knew it was going to be there, too. It already was.

  “Come along, Morgan. I go to accept your purse. They’ve entertainment arranged for the eve. Some sort of English nonsense called theater. I’ve never seen theater. You wish to attend this time? I will have you protected. None of your followers will be allowed near. You have my word.”

  “Nay,” she whispered. She was surprised her voice actually made sound.

  She was afraid to stay another moment with him, as it was. She’d be on her knees begging him to take her as his woman...and make her his whore. Her body and heart wanted to force him to take her and make it reality. Her pride, and the years of hatred, training, and sacrifice, were demanding otherwise. She was shaking. Zander may have noticed, since he was looking at her so closely. She didn’t dare meet his gaze.

  She walked past him. The door closed. He didn’t follow her.

  The tub was gone. Morgan stood in the center of the room, and realized how deathly quiet everything already was.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Morgan, you must do it. There is no one else. The production will fail, if you doona’ assist them.”

  “Get out of the chamber, Plato.” Morgan spoke the words more to the top of Zander’s footstool than at the FitzHugh who was disturbing her from the door. The smooth wood of Zander’s furniture had hid her sorrow well enough, once she put a blanket on it. Morgan put her nose back into the cloth, more to dry the offending tears from her face than anything else. She hoped the interloper at the door wouldn’t notice.

  “But Morgan, we need you. Zander needs you, too.”

  “Zander does na’ need me. He has yon beauteous wench, Gwynneth, at his side. I am not needed. I will be in the way. I am useless at anything save killing great, wooden targets. Play is no time for weaponry. Now, get from this chamber!”

  Her voice neither sounded as authoritative nor as strong as her words. It sounded wounded and lost, exactly as she had been since Zander left her.

  He chuckled. “They need another for their theater.”

  “Then get another!” Oh, why didn’t he just leave? Morgan put her hands against her eye sockets and wished she were outside and near a fresh burn, to soothe the tissue she’d sobbed into a wretchedly hot, swollen state.

  “From where?”

  “Take one of my followers! They’re everywhere. Look about you. Now go!”

  “There’s na’ another in sight, Morgan, save Eagan, here. Isna’ that true, Eagan?”

  The large clansman Zander had left at the doorstep, answered on cue. Morgan ignored him.

  “Although Eagan is probably wishing he could attend the fest, too.”

  “Does na’ anything get into your thick skull, Plato FitzHugh? I doona’ wish to be part of this play! I doona’ wish to be anywhere! I doona’ wish to be entertainment, for anyone, any longer!”

  Her shout died away.

  “What is it you do wish?” he asked.

  Her heart surged, and Morgan gulped. “To be...free,” she whispered. “To be outside. To be back in my old life. To finish what I set out to do, and cease the doing and the living. That is what I wish.”

  Plato sighed. “And sobbing in this room is going to get you all of that?” he asked, in a quiet voice.

  Morgan lifted her head, and watched the torches flare and spit. She wasn’t sobbing. Only a FitzHugh would accuse a KilCreggar of a weakness like that. Her back stiffened.

  “This play needs another. The lad they had is taken ill. The play canna’ go on without this part played.”

  “I canna’ play a part,” Morgan told the fire.

  “Only you would say that as if it were true. You have played a part all your life, Squire Morgan. Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead. Tell me. Make me believe it.”

  “Go away.”

  “He’s wedding her in two days, Morgan! Two days! You know you can stop it, and you will na’?”

  “Three,” she replied.

  “Did he forget to tell you today was one of them? My brother, Zander. Always the light-hearted, playful one. Always the tease.”

  Fresh tears threatened her eyes at that, and she held the blanket to them. Behind her, Plato blew the disgust.

  Then, more brightly he said, “I have someone who wishes to speak with you, Morgan. ’Tis the Lady Gwynneth. Gwynneth? The squire, Morgan. Perhaps you two can comfort each other with your tears.”

  “I doona’ cry!”

  Morgan swiveled and glared, defying any to state otherwise. He had the Lady Gwynneth with him, although she had a widow’s veiling on her face and a shudder to her frame before she lifted her covering.

  Morgan’s heart sank. The girl’s sadness was apparent.

  “Why do you weep?” Morgan asked softly.

  The girl tried to smile. Morgan couldn’t believe how much she had changed in the fortnight since they’d met.

  “They need another for the part, and there is nae lad left who will suit. I beg it of you,” she whispered.

  Morgan frowned. “This is the cause of your sadness?” she asked, finally.

  The girl looked up at Plato, then back at Morgan. Then, she nodded, although her lower lip trembled.

  “If I play this part, you will cease weeping?” Morgan asked.

  “I…I will do my best.”

  The Lady Gwynneth’s lower lip trembled worse, and huge tears spilled from her eyes. Morgan’s heart went out to her. She knew exactly what Gwynneth felt like, although it was stupid to cry over something as slight as a canceled performance.

  She sighed. “I canna’ be so unchivalrous. Show me this part you need played.”

  “Come then.”

  What Plato said must be true, for the moment Morgan agreed, the girl brightened, and held out her hand. Morgan looked at it. “I will follow you,” she said simply. She couldn’t touch Zander’s betrothed in the guise of a lad and still function. It was impossible.

  They were approaching the Great Hall, which had been set aside for this production, when Plato pulled Morgan aside, by gripping to her upper arm. He motioned the Lady Gwynneth into an antechamber.

  “I need to warn you,” he said.

  “Of what?” she replied, feeling every hair whisper along her neck.

  “This part is for that of a woman.”

  Shock hit her first, and then she had a fist aimed at his jaw. He caught it with one hand and squeezed. Morgan took the pain without wincing. Zander had delivered far worse and with far more lasting effect. Plato held her fist and tightened until her knuckles cracked.

  “You canna’ win this. A real man has na’ the light easy motion of a blade, dearest Morgan,” he whispered. “Nor is he so easily played with. I was hopeful you and my brother would find this out for yourselves, without my help. But you leave me no choice.”

  “I doona’ ken your meaning,” she answered.

  “Oh yes, you do. Now, hurry along. Lady Gwynneth awaits to help you costume yourself. I will await your arrival in the Hall.”


  “I will na’ do it. I refuse.”

  “You refuse and I will force you.”

  “You canna’ force me. I have the dragon blade.” Morgan slipped it from her kilt.

  Plato’s eyebrows rose. “’Tis fitting, I suppose. The blade goes to the strongest of the FitzHughs. It is won. I’m not surprised he gave it to you today.”

  “He gave it to me a-fore the exhibition.”

  His grip eased. “Why?” he asked.

  “To use on any FitzHugh who accosts me. Any FitzHugh.”

  “The man is mad. Gwynneth?” He dropped Morgan’s hand.

  The petite Lady Gwynneth stepped back outside. “’Tis almost time, Morgan. Hurry. I still have to paint your face!”

  “Paint my face? As what, a...harlot?” Her voice was bitter on the word.

  “Nay. ’Tis but a bit of greasepaint. All actors wear it, especially those portraying a woman. Takes the ugliness from their faces and creates illusion. You understand illusion?”

  “Morgan understands that best of all,” Plato answered for her.

  “You are a lady welcoming her brave lads back from the sea. You have but three lines. ‘Well and good, lads.’ ‘Thanks be to God’, and ‘’tis done.’ You can remember these?”

  “I have to speak? I canna’ speak women’s words, nor in a woman’s voice,” Morgan protested.

  “But Plato says you are the only one who can!”

  Gwynneth picked up Morgan’s hands and held them in hers. Fresh tears appeared in her eyes and then on her cheeks at she looked up at Morgan. Morgan glared her complete hatred at Plato. He responded with a grin.

  “Who can resist such an entreaty? Any other lad would be on his knees, begging for a favor, but not you, eh, Morgan?”

  “I have no teats. What am I to use for them?” She spat the words.

  Gwynneth looked at Plato for an explanation and when he gave it, her lips twitched a bit, but her tears stopped. Up close, she was actually more beautiful than Morgan remembered.