Morgan the Rogue

by Lynn Granville

  Morwenna nodded her understanding. Recounting the ancestry of one’s relations was a very important Welsh tradition. People often spoke of a man as being the son of someone who was the son of someone else, tracing their ancestry back in time to the Welsh princes and lords who had once held these lands in their own right. It was the bards who travelled the country singing their songs and stories of the past that kept these traditions alive, and the same thing happened in families where father’s repeated the history of their lineage to their sons.

  ‘I see,’ she said, hoping that the man who had seen her watching him on the bank was not Morgan Gruffudd, or that if he was he would not recognise her this evening in all her finery. She had deliberately worn her best things to blind him to the truth, for surely a girl of her standing would not sit on a riverbank and stare at a naked man!

  Her hand trembled a little on Hywell’s arm as he led her towards the high table on the raised dais, where chairs had been set for three persons – Owain’s own elaborately carved chair in the centre and plainer ones to each side. Everyone else sat on stools or benches, their importance denoted by their position above or below the salt. Several boards had been set on trestles ready for the feasting that evening, for Owain’s men joined him in the Great Hall at night, and many had already taken their places.

  Morwenna was aware that eyes followed her the length of the room, but she was used to it for she had felt the attention of a hall filled with men before this night, and it did not distress or frighten her. She was frightened only as she approached the high table and saw that Owain’s guests had already taken their places there. One of them was to his left but not given the place of honour next to him. He was a handsome man of perhaps twenty summers with fair hair that was cut neatly about his ears and eyes that reminded her of a spring sky, not blue or yet grey. He smiled at her as she approached, but there was no knowledge or malice in his eyes, and she knew that he had not seen her clearly enough that morning to recognise her.

  ‘Morwenna, this is Rhys Llewelyn,’ her father said. ‘Newly come to the service of the lord of Glyndyfrdwy – and this is Owain’s kinsman, Morgan Gruffudd.’

  Morwenna’s heart stood still as she looked into the eyes of the young man who had stood so boldly on the bank of the river and laughed at her when he discovered her staring at his nakedness. His eyes were even brighter blue than she had thought at the time, and deep within them she saw the knowledge she had dreaded. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth for an instant, though it was quickly hidden as he scowled at her and slouched down on his stool to her right.

  ‘Sir,’ she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’

  She received no more than a grunt in return and sat down as a page attended her chair. Morgan Gruffudd clearly had no manners, and his dress left much to be desired. His chin had been shaven recently for there was but a shadow of a beard, but his hair was long and looked in need of a trimming. His clothes were dark of hue and the same ones he had been wearing on his journey by the look of them, stained by travel and of coarse cloth. He had made no effort to improve his appearance for the evening, and she felt offended by his sloth. His appearance was an insult to his host and Owain’s guests. Her own father was dressed in his best gown, belted with a girdle of gold thread and ornamented with a jewelled chain about his neck. If Morgan Gruffudd had no change of clothing with him, he could at least have had a page shave him in honour of the occasion – though she could not smell sweat on him and guiltily recalled that he must at least have cleansed his body in the river. Perhaps that was why he had taken the chance to plunge into the cold water, washing away the dirt of his journey before coming to his kinsman’s house.

  His laughter had sounded joyous then, and his manner had been bold and free, but she could almost think him a different man to the one who slouched by her side as the feasting commenced. He seemed surly and disinclined to talk, and after two attempts to engage him in conversation, Morwenna gave up. Let him sulk all night if he would, it was no matter to her! She stared straight ahead of her, ignoring her companion.

  ‘You drink too much, Morgan,’ Owain said when the evening was half done. ‘If you do not heed your ways you will be useless to me. I have no place for a drunken fool in my service.’

  Morgan’s eyes were half closed as he glanced towards his host. ‘You believe too much of what you hear, sir. I am no tame dog to be tied to my mother’s skirts.’

  ‘A man may be free of his mother’s skirts but still remain sober,’ Owain replied and gave him a cold, disdainful look. ‘Pray oblige me by showing some manners to the lady Morwenna. You have scarce spoken to her all night.’

  Morgan glowered at him, deliberately reaching for the wine sack and pouring more of the rich red liquid into his drinking cup before turning his intense blue gaze on Morwenna.

  ‘I am bidden entertain you, lady. What would you have of me? I can sing you a fair song if you wish it? I have not my lute with me, but can carry a tune without it.’

  Morwenna’s cheeks grew warm as she looked into those eyes, which were the colour of a summer sky, seeming to see deeper than she wanted or expected. She suspected him of laughing at her. He was not drunk! She could almost swear it – but then why was he acting this way? There was some mystery here.

  ‘If it is your pleasure I would hear you sing, sir.’

  ‘It is your pleasure that matters. I would pleasure you, sweet lady.’

  The soft, low tone of his voice, which was meant for her alone to hear, sent a shiver down Morwenna’s spine. She sensed that he was insinuating he would enjoy more than merely singing for her, and she felt herself grow hot all over. For that look in his eyes could surely mean but one thing – and it was wicked of him to mock her so! Especially when she could not answer him as he deserved to be answered, with a slap on his face. She ground her teeth, remaining outwardly calm though inside she was fuming. If they were but alone she would show him what she thought of his manners!

  ‘Sing if you think your voice deserves a hearing,’ she said, raising her head proudly. ‘I care not what you do, sir.’

  She sat stiffly as Morgan rose to his feet and began to sing, struck by the beauty and clarity of the notes that came from his throat. His voice was as pure as any she had ever heard at the Eisteddfod. His song told of a lover dying of unrequited love, which brought tears to her eyes. She felt the anger inside her begin to melt, the sweetness of his voice drawing her to him. She was about to applaud him when his song drew to a close, but before she could do so, he drank deeply of his ale and then began to sing something that made her blush for shame. It was a ribald tale that should never have been sung before her, and made her look away in disgust.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Owain roared and rose to his feet, his anger plain for all to see. ‘If you cannot behave respectably leave my board now. In the morning when you are sober you will apologise to the lady you have just insulted with your filth.’

  ‘Be damned to you and her if she takes my song amiss,’ Morgan said and lurched to his feet again. ‘If my presence displeases you, I’ll take myself off.’

  His progress through the hall and out of the door at the other end was far from steady. More than once he stumbled as if he would fall, and then righted himself. As he disappeared out of the hall, Owain turned to her with an apology on his lips.

  ‘I beg you will forgive Morgan’s behaviour, Morwenna. He is clearly not used to strong ale. Fear not, I shall teach him better manners before he is allowed into your presence again.’

  A ripple of laughter went round the hall at this, and Morwenna’s cheeks were rosy as she smiled at Owain. She did not answer him, for she did not believe that Morgan Gruffudd had been drunk – but what was his purpose in making everyone believe it?

  If he was determined to be thought a rogue perhaps he was one? Perhaps he had come here for some evil purpose?

  ‘I think you should be careful of that man,’ she whispered softly to Owain. ‘It might be
that he was not as drunk as he pretended – and that he seeks to do you harm.’

  ‘Did you think that?’ Owain’s eyes narrowed and she thought she saw a gleam of appreciation. ‘I thank you for your concern, Morwenna, but I am well protected in my own home.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He would think her a fool. Yet she knew that all had not been as it seemed.

  *

  Morwenna dressed with the dawn in a simple tunic, belting it with a girdle of leather and slipping on the sheath that contained her tiny jewelled dagger so that it hung at her hip. She loved this time of day, before the household was completely awake, and often went walking in the dew of the morning. At home no one knew or troubled where she went, but here in her kinsman’s house she was afraid she might be seen and questioned or sent back to her solar for her own safety.

  However, although some of the men were stirring in the Great Hall, others were still snoring. The feasting had gone on long after she had retired, and many of them would have drunk deeply – more deeply than Morgan Gruffudd. Owain’s reaction to his young kinsman’s behaviour had surprised her, for she had not thought it worthy of so public a reprimand. After all, he had done no more than sing a bawdy song, which others had done before him, though seldom in her presence. Yet she was not such an innocent that she did not know how many of the men-at-arms and servants pleasured themselves with kitchen wenches. It was the natural order of things.

  Besides, she was still convinced that Morgan Gruffudd had not truly been drunk, merely pretending to be so – but why? Her warning to Owain had been dismissed with a smile and she could do no more, for she knew that men seldom listened to what the women had to say.

  She skirted the men still sleeping huddled on the floor around the now long extinguished fire, finding her way out into the courtyard where a few of the more hardy were dunking themselves in water drawn from the well. One or two called a friendly greeting, for they knew her of old and liked the pretty girl who usually had a smile for them. Morwenna inclined her head but did not tarry, escaping from the waking household through the orchard into the meadow. If she was to be confined to her chamber again today, she would take her customary walk first.

  It was as she approached the edge of the forest, that she heard the thunder of hooves behind her and looking back saw a man on horseback riding at speed towards her. His black hair flew like a banner in the breeze, and she knew him at once, standing as if turned to stone as he approached. She thought he would sweep by her, but then he seemed to become aware of her and jerked on his reins, causing his horse to rear up a short distance away from her. She watched him fight with the spirited beast, admiring his strength and power as he controlled it in the end and then trotted up to her. Her heart raced as he grinned down at her.

  ‘Are you away to the river, lady?’ he asked, mischief in his eyes.

  Morwenna’s cheeks flushed with fire. ‘I did not realise you were…’ she floundered as she saw the mockery in his face. ‘You are unkind, sir. I was shocked by…I had never seen…’

  ‘A naked man?’ He grinned at her, his eyes so blue and filled with a fire that made her tremble. ‘And did you like what you saw, Morwenna?’

  ‘You are too forward, sir.’

  ‘Or not forward enough.’ She heard the soft chuckle of laughter and felt hot. His words seemed to suggest so much more than they said. ‘It would be sweet to dally with you, lady, but I must away. I have work to do.’

  ‘Are you leaving so soon?’

  ‘Do you wish I might stay? I am sorry to disappoint you for I have never disappointed an eager wench before.’ His mockery stung her and she tossed her head. ‘Do not despair, sweet Morwenna. I may yet return – or I may not. I am free – free as the air that surrounds you. I have a living to make and all the world is open to me. I bid you adieu, fair one. Be careful what you do at the river…’

  ‘You were not drunk last night,’ she said as he prepared to ride away. ‘If you plan harm to Owain he is well protected. I would kill you myself rather than let you harm him.’ She touched the dagger at her waist, her look fierce and angry. ‘If you betray him you will be my enemy.’

  ‘I should not like for there to be enmity between us,’ Morgan said, the smile dying from his eyes. ‘I cannot tell you more, Morwenna – but no matter what you hear, I ask you to think kindly of me.’

  As he rode on past her, Morwenna turned her head to stare after him, feeling an odd ache in her breast. Would she ever see him again? He had spoken of the whole world being open to him and that boded ill in her mind. The only way a man in his position might see the world was to sell his sword to the English – the enemy of her people.

  She walked back towards the house, head bent, her plans to escape to the river somehow tarnished by this chance meeting. What kind of a man was Morgan Gruffudd?

  Entering the courtyard, she saw the young man who had accompanied Morgan here. He was dressed now in the way of Owain’s men-at-arms, a leather hauberk over his short tunic and hose, his head covered by a helmet of leather and chain metal. He was already hard at work practising swordplay with the others, and had no time to do more than smile at her as she passed.

  Rhys Llewelyn was a handsome man, Morwenna thought. His smile did not terrify her the way Morgan Gruffudd’s did, and she smiled back at him.

  Going into the hall, she saw that the servants had cleared away all the debris of the night before and were sweeping the floor with fresh herbs to sweeten it. A couple of hounds hunted in the old straw to seek out scraps of food or bones that might have been discarded the previous night, and the servants half-heartedly chased them off every now and then, laughing and muttering to each other as they worked.

  Morwenna was about to mount the steps to her solar when she heard her father call to her and turned to wait for him to come up to her.

  ‘So you have been out already, daughter,’ Hywell said. ‘Well, I dare say you are safe enough here for Owain’s men would not harm you – any who laid a finger on you would be hanged for his folly. I am assured of your comfort with Owain so I may leave you in peace of mind.’

  ‘Leave me, Father?’ Morwenna stared at him. ‘You mean I am to stay here without you?’

  ‘For the moment, though I believe Owain means to travel to Sycharth soon. He will take you there and you will have female company to make your stay more pleasant than here. I ask only that you do nothing that would cause either of us shame.’

  ‘You know I would not, Father – but may I not come with you? Do you go home?’

  ‘Not for the moment, daughter. I have work – work that will take me many a league before I return.’ He shook his head as she looked at him inquiringly. ‘Nay, daughter, this is men’s business. You would not understand, and it is best that you don’t. Come, kiss me, child, and receive my blessing.’

  Morwenna kissed his cheek as he bade her, and felt the touch of his hand on her head. A cold chill had settled at the base of her spine and she was suddenly afraid for him, afraid of this work that must take him away from his home and all that he held dear. She suspected it was to do with the secrets she had overheard Owain and her father discussing the previous day.

  ‘Is your work dangerous, Father?’

  ‘You ask too many questions, my daughter,’ Hywell said. ‘Go up to your nurse now and think of your wedding. Owain has the matter in hand and it may be that in a few months you will be married to a man deserving of you, but you must not plague your kinsman. You will be told when the time has come.’

  Morwenna made no reply as she went on up the stairs to her solar. Why did men always seem to believe that women were incapable of understanding? She understood all too well that her father’s business was for Owain, and that it had something to do with his intention to declare himself the true prince of Wales. Her father was being sent as a messenger or to gather information, of that she was certain. She just hoped that it was nothing more dangerous, though considering the nature of Owain’s secret plans even carry
ing a message was dangerous enough. The English would torture and kill any man they believed to be involved in such nefarious business.

  It was odd, she thought, that Morgan Gruffudd should depart so suddenly. His quarrel with Owain had surely not been serious enough to warrant his departure? Unless, there was some secret business he had undertaken for his kinsman?

  Recalling the look in Owain’s eyes the previous evening when she had been bold enough to warn him to be careful of Morgan, Morwenna wondered if she had stumbled on the truth. Morgan had clearly been excited as he rode away that morning, not sullen or resentful, which he might have been if he had been refused service by his kinsman.

  The more she considered, the more she believed she was right. A little smile tugged at the corners of her soft mouth as she recalled Morgan’s words to her. She thought he might have been telling her that he would return to her, though he could not promise it openly – and he had asked her to think kindly of him.

  It was possible that he too had departed to carry out some secret mission for Owain. The thought pleased her and lifted her spirits, for if she was right it meant that he would return one day.

  *

  Morgan listened again as he heard what he thought was a woman screaming. He was nearing the end of the forest that bordered the land that became England once the river was crossed, and could see the trees thinning and the light becoming stronger as the day gained on the night. He had travelled constantly since leaving Glyndyfrdwy, stopping to rest only for brief periods, eating sparingly of the food Owain’s steward had given him, determined to make good speed on his journey to Shrewsbury.

  There it was again! Screaming, a woman and a horse now, both terrified, and the unmistakable sound of fighting. Spurring his horse forward, Morgan came out of the forest in time to see the struggle going on on the banks of the river. Three women and two young pages were fighting against the men who seemed intent on capturing them. The men were undoubtedly English, but looked like brigands rather than men-at-arms. There were four of them, but Morgan did not think twice as he put his horse to the charge and with a yell that had struck fear into the hearts of many an Englishman, charged at them, sword in hand.