Morgan the Rogue

by Lynn Granville

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Did I not tell you how it would be?’ Morwenna asked, a sneer of derision on her lips as she looked at her daughter and saw the hurt in her eyes. ‘They will hate you now, Morganna, blame you for killing their only son.’

  She laughed softly, feeling a surge of satisfaction as she realised the grief both Morgan and his woman must be feeling over the loss of their son. It served them right! She was almost gleeful as she imagined the pain they must have felt watching him die of his fever.

  ‘But I did not want Richard to swim in the lake,’ Morganna said, eyes bright with tears. ‘I told him he ought not to do it…’

  ‘Well, ‘tis over now,’ her mother said harshly, the hatred in her so fierce it was almost a tangible thing. Those eyes were so like his that sometimes she wanted to punish the girl simply for being Morgan’s child. ‘I warned you that Morgan Gruffudd would hurt you and now perhaps you will believe me. You will know that like all men he is not to be trusted.’

  Morganna turned away, running up the worn stone steps to her chamber, wanting only to hide from her mother’s harsh words. The coldness of the house seemed to seep into her soul, bringing her close to despair. She had sought comfort but she should have known she would get none from her mother. It seemed that Morwenna had no pity or kindness left in her.

  Morganna’s hurt was making her eyes sting with the tears she was trying not to shed. Her father had said he would come to her when he had time. She must believe that, for if she did not there was nothing left for her to hope for, nothing but the emptiness of her life here.

  She lay weeping on her bed for some time, and then she felt as if someone were near by – a comforting presence that seemed almost to touch her – but when she looked round there was nothing.

  Blinking away her tears, Morganna took out the precious journal her father had given her as a birthday gift, smoothing it with reverent fingers. It was made of the finest vellum bound in soft leather, such a costly gift that Morganna had at first been afraid to touch it, and in it Lady Rosamund had set the letters of the alphabet for her to learn.

  She had been shocked to discover that Morganna could not even write her own name, setting herself to teach her that at least. Morganna had learned swiftly for she did not want to be ignorant, though her mother said it was a waste of time to learn to read and write.

  ‘I have always made my mark when it was necessary,’ she had told Morganna. ‘My father did not think it right or proper for me to be taught such things.’

  But Morganna wanted to learn to read for a special reason. Gwenny had taught her some of her recipes for making simples and ointments, and she had spoken of books where the learning of wise men was set down to explain these mysteries. Morganna’s need to know more of such things meant that somehow she must learn first to read, and then where she could buy such books. Richard had died because no one knew how to make him better – if she had known these things he might have lived. She would learn what she needed to somehow and then perhaps she might be able to save others from a death such as his.

  She lifted her head as the idea came to her. She would write down everything she learned in her journal, and one day she might be able to help others. It would give her life some meaning and some purpose.

  Her father loved her, she was sure of it. He might be angry, he might blame her for encouraging Richard to swim – though she had not – but surely he would not forget her?

  The years ahead might be lonely, but if she had some hope she thought that she could bear it.

  *

  Rosamund stared out at the forest, which had become hateful to her now. It was almost four long years since Richard’s death from the fever he had caught while swimming in the lake. Once she had delighted in its beauty but now could not bear to go there even to see the flowers she loved, and she spent most of her time working on her embroidery.

  She had learned to think of her daughters and devoted much of her time to teaching them. Ellen was a clever girl who could read and speak four languages as well as embroider and play the harp. Anne was quieter and less inclined to study. She liked to help Rosamund in the stillroom and had a way of making people love her. Sweet natured and kind, she helped everyone she could and would make someone a good wife one day.

  The terrible black despair that had fallen on Rosamund after her son’s death had eased at last, but she was still aware of a feeling of emptiness. Much of this was caused by the rift between her and Morgan, for it was months since she had seen or heard from him. He had returned to Caris a few times in the early days after Richard’s death, but there had been a distance between them that neither seemed to know how to cross, perhaps because she had not wanted to let him near her. Her pain had been too sharp, too raw. She had regretted afterwards that she had been so cold towards Morgan, but somehow she had not been able to find the way to tell him. Besides, Morgan was in the mountains with Owain, both of them being hunted by the English. A series of reverses and setbacks since the year 1408 had stripped Owain of almost all of his earlier gains and now it was almost as if the years of glory had never been.

  ‘I am so sick of war,’ Rosamund said aloud to the empty room. ‘I wish…Oh, I do not know what I wish.’

  She wished that things could be as they were before Richard died, but no amount of tears or crying for the past would bring her son back to her, and sometimes now she thought that she had lost Morgan forever too. It was perhaps her fault that they had drifted so far apart, but Richard’s death lay between them, a festering sore that neither could lance.

  The only way that they might be happy again was if they could live together in peace and freedom, and for that Morgan would have to sue for peace with the English. Many of Owain’s friends and allies had surrendered on favourable terms. The struggle had been a long one and perhaps the English were as sick of the struggle as was Rosamund herself.

  ‘My lady…’ She turned at the sound of Alicia’s voice. She was plumper now, a smiling contented mother of three children. Alicia came to Caris for a few months each year but her home was in Worcester and before winter she would leave again. Jack Errin had taken Thomas’s place as the captain of Rosamund’s guard. ‘There is a messenger…’

  Rosamund’s heart missed a beat. ‘From Morgan?’ she asked, feeling a surge of hope. Was he coming to visit at last?

  ‘No, my lady. I am not quite sure who he comes from for he will speak only to you – but he says he has something of importance to tell you.’

  ‘Then ask him to come in but stay near in case I need you.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. He has been searched but carries no weapons.’

  Rosamund waited anxiously until the messenger entered, her pulses racing. Perhaps the message came from Owain. Had Morgan been killed or wounded?

  ‘Lady Rosamund.’ The stranger bent his head in deference. He was richly dressed in livery of gold and silver. ‘I have been sent by Prince Henry…’

  ‘The King’s son?’ Rosamund trembled inwardly, though she hid her anxiety as best she could. ‘Pray give me your message, sir. What demands does your prince make of me?’

  ‘None at this time, lady. I am commanded by my master to tell you that Sir Philip de Grenville is dead. He did not die in battle of his wounds, but of a putrid sickness that kept him to his bed for some months before he died.’

  ‘My husband is dead?’ Rosamund crossed herself. ‘God have mercy on his soul. I am sorry if he died in pain, though I have no grief for him.’

  ‘My master wished you to know that you are no longer in danger from Sir Philip. He has the matter of your rights and lands in hand and will let you know his decision concerning them when he has had time to deliberate on the matter. In the meantime you are free to go where you please – to your English manors if you so wish. You will not be hindered or impeded in any way.’

  Rosamund was astonished, wondering if she had heard rightly, but the messenger was handing her a written message and she would read it later to be sure.
<
br />   ‘I thank you for your message, sir. You may tell the prince that I shall remain here until I hear his decision.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  Alicia looked at her excitedly as the messenger bowed and left them, the sound of his booted feet on the stone steps echoing back to them. ‘What did he mean? Do you trust him?’

  ‘Morgan met the prince when he was my husband’s prisoner. I believe he liked him even though they were enemies. I suppose I could trust him but I shall stay here for the moment. I may be free to leave Wales but Morgan is not.’

  ‘Yet you never see him,’ Alicia said impulsively. ‘Why stay here now that Sir Philip is dead? You could visit your home, see old friends – be free again.’

  Rosamund was sorely tempted by her friend’s urging. It would be so good to leave Caris. Once Alicia and Thomas left she would have no close friends here, other than her faithful William, though there were many others who served her well and she was never truly alone. And her daughters would be of an age to marry in a few years. She must think of their future as well as her own.

  ‘I shall consider the matter,’ she said. ‘But it may yet be a trap. I must think carefully. I shall ask William to write letters. I must know for certain that Philip is dead.’

  Yet in her heart she knew that it was so. She was free at last of the shadows that had lain over her so long. She could be Morgan’s wife…but no, he had a wife. Rosamund was free but he was not.

  She wandered over to the window, staring out. She was as much a prisoner of her unhappiness as ever.

  *

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Morwenna saw the gold coin in her daughter’s hand and caught her arm. Her eyes were narrowed, glinting avariciously. ‘Did you take it from my coffer? Give it to me!’

  Morganna held it out to her and she snatched it up, turning it in her fingers as if it were some strange talisman. ‘I was going to buy medicine from the fair in the village. I thought they might have something to ease the pain in your chest, Mother. It is not your gold. Maire left it to me. I found it in a box beneath my bed. She had carved my name on the lid and Gwenny said it was mine.’

  ‘Gwenny knows nothing,’ Morwenna said. In all these years, she had never ceased to search for Maire’s gold and all the time it had been hidden under the child’s bed. Why had she never thought to look there? ‘It is mine. It was owed me for what I did for her while she was ill. It is mine, I tell you!’

  Suddenly the look of accusation in Maire’s eyes as she choked on her own blood flashed into Morwenna’s mind. It had haunted her for years, giving her no peace, invading her dreams. She had searched and searched for the gold so that she could escape this accursed house and now it was too late. The pain in her chest was getting worse and she had begun to bring up blood when she coughed.

  It was Maire’s curse on her. She had hastened her motherin-law’s death and now she was dying of the same illness. She must have taken it from her when she nursed her. The sickness had not shown itself for years, but of late she had begun to notice a strange weakness and she believed she would die before too many years had passed.

  ‘Keep your money,’ she said, throwing the coin down as if it burned her. ‘Do not waste it on nonsense. There are no cures that will help me. I am dying of some foul sickness and soon you will be alone. You will need money then for there is no one to care for you.’

  ‘My father…’ Morganna began but was silenced by the flash of anger in her mother’s eyes. ‘Besides, I have Gwenny.’

  ‘Gwenny is old and you need someone to arrange your marriage. You are twelve, old enough to be betrothed … but I cannot do it.’ Morwenna coughed, wiping her mouth with a cloth as she tasted blood. ‘If your father ever comes here again you must ask him what you should do but I doubt that he will come. He has forgotten you. He blames you for the death of his precious son.’ Morwenna’s mouth twisted with spite as she saw the hurt in the girl’s eyes. Once she had cared for her child despite her hatred for Morgan, but now she cared for nothing but this pain in her chest. Besides it was better that the girl should learn that it was wiser to hope for nothing in this life than suffer later.

  Bitterness and this strange sickness had made Morwenna old long before her time. Her face had lost its youthful promise, becoming hard and sour, the flesh withered to the bone and grey. She had rejoiced in Morgan’s loss, feeling that at last she had her revenge. Now he knew what it was like to feel pain! But the knowledge of his suffering had not eased her own or erased the bitterness of her empty existence here in this accursed house.

  ‘You should rest,’ Morganna told her as she heard the harsh rasp of her breath. ‘I will make you a soothing tisane before I go. Perhaps that will ease you.’

  ‘I can make it myself,’ Morwenna said coldly. ‘Go to the fair with Gwenny as you planned. At least then I may have some peace.’

  Morganna looked at her in silence for a moment before turning away. Her mother’s harsh words no longer hurt her. She was used to them and she pitied her because she understood the emptiness of Morwenna’s life.

  She too had felt like that when she’d been sent home after Richard’s death, and she had cried into her pillows night after night. And then she had begun to sense a presence in her room. At first she had thought it imagination, but it had grown stronger, surrounding her with what she could only think of as love. It came to her when she was at her lowest ebb, when the loneliness of her life was almost too much to bear. She had seen nothing but she had been comforted and once she believed she had heard a woman’s soft voice talking to her, felt a gentle kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Do not break your heart for Richard,’ the voice seemed to say. ‘He loves you and says that you were not to blame.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Morganna asked but she was not afraid.

  ‘Someone who loves you,’ the voice replied. ‘Take heart, Morganna. You must face a time of loneliness but one day great happiness shall be yours.’

  Morganna had listened for the voice for many nights after but she had never heard it again, though she believed that someone had come to her in her darkest moment to comfort her. The next day she had found the gold under her bed. She had dropped her necklet, the one her father had given her when she was very young, and in reaching under the bed had discovered the coffer. It was small but very heavy, which was why the servants had not dislodged it with their sweeping brooms. Not that they often swept beneath the beds for the coffer was covered with a thick layer of dust as was the floor. It was only when she had wiped the coffer clean that she had seen her name scratched on the lid.

  She had shown it to Gwenny later that day, asking her how it had come there and who could have hidden it.

  ‘It was Maire,’ Gwenny replied without hesitation. ‘She hid it there before she died so that your mother should not find it. She wanted you to have it, Morganna.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I saw her leaving the room the day before she died. She was breathing hard and it had cost her much to do what she did, but she was a strong, determined woman. She warned me not to tell Morwenna but she did not say why. Maire loved you, child. She wanted you to have something of your own – lest your life here should become unbearable.’

  Then it must have been Maire who had come to comfort her. Morganna liked to believe it for it made her feel happy to know that she had been loved – was still loved – by her grandmother.

  Sometimes her life was almost unbearable. Morganna’s mother was hard to please and forever scolding her. Yet she had not beaten her. A sharp slap about her legs now and then but no worse.

  Morganna could bear the scolding and the slaps. Her deepest hurt came from the knowledge that her father had forgotten her. She had heard nothing from him in all these years. She had been eight when Richard died and now she was only a few months from her thirteenth birthday.

  She knew that both her father and Lady Rosamund blamed her for their son’s death. It must be so for otherwise she would not hav
e been forgotten.

  Morganna had ceased to weep for herself. Intelligent and diligent, she was also a spirited, friendly girl and spent her time being as useful to her mother and others as she could. She had learned all she could about making cures and simples from her mother and Gwenny, and from the book she had bought from the peddler who came to the fair every few months.

  Her skill was becoming talked of everywhere in the houses that were hidden in the valleys about the Black Mountains. The people were often isolated and yet communicated with each other through the travellers who passed by; folk whispered one to another and in this way Morganna’s fame as a healer had spread beyond the confines of her home. And it was to Morganna rather than the mistress of the house that the servants came if one of them was sick.

  She smiled as Gwenny brought her mantle, fussing over her as she always did. Even if her father had forgotten her she could always rely on her nurse for love and devotion. She had made up her mind that she would go to the fair as her mother had bid her, for she could buy things there that would make the healing tisanes she prepared for her mother and the servants.

  ‘Are you ready, my lovely?’

  ‘Yes, Gwenny.’ Morganna’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement. She was already bidding fair to becoming a beauty, her colour striking, and her features classic rather than softly pretty. ‘I shall order some material from the cloth merchant today. It is time that both you and I had a new gown.’

  Gwenny nodded. Morganna was the darling of her heart, and she thought her far more lovely than her mother had ever been. If she had had the benefit of a loving family she might already have been betrothed, but it was unlikely to happen as things stood. It would be a wicked waste if she were to give up everything to nurse her mother. Morwenna would die slowly over a period of months or years, for she had the same wasting sickness as Maire.

  ‘You should send word to your father,’ she said as they left the house to walk to the village where the fair was held twice a year. ‘Your mother is very ill. It might ease her mind to make her peace with him at the last.’