My Once & Future Love (Unsung Knights of the Round Table #1)

by Ruth Kaufman

  MY ONCE & FUTURE LOVE

  Unsung Knights of the Round Table #1: Morgan

  Ruth Kaufman

  www.ruthkaufman.com

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  England 1463: En route to rescue his father, Merlin, wounds deplete Knight of the Round Table Morgan ap Myrddin’s immortal powers. Annora of Amberton must prove she’s not the lunatic her uncle claimed when seeking wardship over her and her lands. As they help each other pursue their goals, can the power of love surmount danger, secrets and destiny?

  For everyone who kept going despite many rejections.

  Chapter 1

  Northern Wales, September 1463

  Flames of agony seared Morgan ap Myrddin. Blood, crimson as the dragon on his long-lost banner, streamed down his side, soaking remnants of the shirt pressed against his arrow wound to staunch the flow. He sped through the forest, cracking branches in his haste.

  Heart pounding hard as a hammer on an anvil, he caught his breath behind a wide oak and leaned heavily on the rough bark. Amidst a shower of autumn leaves, he closed his eyes to focus his dwindling strength and energy on listening. What he sought lay beyond the wind swishing through the trees.

  He sought the footsteps of his enemies.

  Morgan’s ears, keener than those of any mortal man’s, strained to capture the distant sounds of an army on the move. The faint rumble, the subtle shaking of the ground beneath his feet told him what he needed to know. His enemies approached.

  Never before, in thirty-two mortal years fraught with danger, had he come so close to being trapped.

  Closing his eyes, he raised his arms to summon aid, to call upon his vast powers.

  Nothing happened. Nothing changed.

  Icy needles of unfamiliar fear pierced him. “Taliesin preserve me,” he breathed.

  No answer. His Mysteries had faded so, he couldn’t even hear the wisdom of his ancestors.

  Morgan ran. He stumbled into a tree, dizzy from loss of blood. He had to move faster or they would capture him.

  And his father would remain imprisoned for all eternity.

  • • •

  “Now what?” Annora fought back tears as she trudged into the small cottage and threw a sack of food onto the bed. Her maid Emma followed, lugging her own sack. “I don’t know of other physicians I can trust. We’ve spent most of the coin I could bring….”

  She paced, torn skirts brushing over the beaten earth floor. Tears burned her eyes. She felt helpless as a baby bird abandoned in the nest.

  Her best hope had evaporated.

  Emma sat on the other stool and dug out a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread from her bag. A sad smile creased her plump face. “Annora, please, eat. You’ll think more clearly.”

  Primrose, her white cat, rubbed against her legs, obviously happy they’d returned.

  Today, not even her pet could make her smile. Annora sat at the well-used oak table near the small hearth and ripped a piece off the rye loaf. No soft white bread for her these days, but at least she could eat without fear of being poisoned.

  “I will find a way to remove my uncle from Amberton,” she vowed. She whispered yet another prayer that he wouldn’t find her before she obtained proof that she was in full possession of her wits, not the lunatic he proclaimed her.

  She dropped the bread, her appetite gone. Brushing crumbs from her hands, she added, “You need to return to Amberton, Emma. My uncle can pay you and your son, I can’t.”

  “The leave Sir Roger granted me and Albert to visit my ‘ailing’ sister will end soon.” Emma ambled to the hearth. “But you can’t be alone out here—”

  “I need someone at home I can trust.”

  Emma paused in the midst of building a fire. “It’s dangerous. A lone woman can’t take care—”

  “It’s for the best.”

  The cozy crackle and familiar scent of the fire combined with the welcome companionship of Emma, who was like a mother to her, helped Annora relax. Odd that the sanctuary she’d craved came in this drafty, sparsely furnished thatched cottage with dried flowers hanging from the timbers, not in her own castle with its six-foot thick walls, guards and the finest comforts gold could buy.

  But at home, the guards, the walls, were there to keep her in. So different than when her father had been alive.

  “I’ll seek out Father’s other friends. Maybe one can lead me to a worthy physician. Though how I’ll pay for a guard and lodging, I don’t—”

  A thump on the door made Annora jump.

  Both women’s heads snapped toward the sound. Annora froze, staring at the wooden portal as if force of will could allow her see through it.

  Another thump, louder.

  Emma grasped her arm. “If we were followed….”

  Sudden dread congealed in her veins. Could her uncle have found her? On shaky legs, she tiptoed toward the door.

  “Lock it, quick!” Emma squealed softly.

  Before Annora could shove the iron bolt into place, the door opened. She pushed with trembling hands, threw her full weight forward.

  Whoever sought entry was stronger. The door swung open to reveal a man. A very tall, half-naked man with silver-white hair and a strange golden necklace glimmering on his well-muscled chest.

  She gasped and staggered back.

  He fell, narrowly missing her and landing with a resounding thud. Dappled sunlight highlighted the expanse of his back, his overlong, tangled hair. A painting of a blue sword decorated his left shoulder. Hose caked with mud clung to substantial thighs. Tied around his waist was a silk shirt stained brownish-red.

  “He doesn’t look like one o’ Sir Roger’s,” Emma whispered.

  Annora could barely catch her breath against a flood of terror. Reason prevailed. “He’s wounded. And still bleeding.”

  “’Tis a pity, but we must take him outside.” Emma seized his ankles. “Grab his arms.”

  “We can’t leave an injured man exposed on the ground.”

  “Nor can we keep him in here, with us,” Emma protested. “A strange man? Maybe Sir Roger’s spy.”

  The man groaned and rolled onto his back.

  With his prominent cheekbones, square jaw, straight, dark brows and long eyelashes, he looked like one of the Greek gods she’d read about during her confinement. Add to that a broad chest and flat stomach.

  Admiration of his perfect form filled her battered heart. But no man was perfect on the inside, living or in tales. Even her favorite Greek heroes had fatal flaws.

  The thick gold chain and amulet bearing a raised chalice had left impressions on his skin. His chest barely moved. How badly injured was he?

  “This way.” A male voice drifted through the still open door. “We’ve got him now!”

  Annora’s heart skipped several beats. Sickening dread swamped her, as with each time her uncle’s key had turned in her door.

  The injured man’s eyes opened. She glimpsed purest blue before she gasped and jumped into the paltry safety of the door’s shadow. Emma scurried behind the bed. Primrose leapt to join her.

  He started to sit, but fell back with a groan, clutching his side. Bright blood seeped through his fingers.

  “They’ve tracked me. I must hide.” His voice was low and urgent.

  Never had she seen eyes like his, a vibrant turquoise, so insistent. As if he could will her to obey by staring at her.

  “Who are you? Who are they?”

  “Help me
,” he rasped. “Close the door. Now. Please,” he amended, as if asking for help didn’t come easily, but giving orders did.

  Which was worse, the danger without or the danger within?

  The danger without. She closed the door and locked it.

  “Who are you?” she asked again, her back against the door in more ways than one. “What do those men want?”

  “I’ll do anything in my power to compensate you,” he said. “Though they might kill you because I’m here.”

  “Or reward me for exposing an outlaw.” If they didn’t have their way with her and Emma first. What if they recognized her and dragged her back to her uncle? Annora shivered.

  “Up here!” The voice was closer.

  They’d be here any minute. Her mouth went dry. “Why are they after you?”

  Bloodstained fingers wrapped around her wrist, sticky and firm, marking her. Despite the looming threat outside, panic didn’t fill her as it had whenever Uncle Roger touched her. Somehow she knew that though this stranger was far larger, far stronger, he’d never take his anger out on her as her uncle had.

  His gaze held her in thrall.

  “I cannot tell you.” His grip on her wrist tightened. “You must choose. Me or them.” His vivid blue gaze bored into hers. “Choose wisely.”

  The man’s eyes closed. His head rolled to the side and his hand dropped to the floor.

  What to do?

  “Choose wisely.”

  She frowned, confused. She was sure she’d heard his voice again, but he hadn’t moved.

  “I say we believe him,” Annora said with greater confidence than she felt. “But where can we hide him? There’s no closet, he’s too big to fit under the bed. Aha. I have an idea. Emma, bring me the antimony.”

  Emma gaped as she peered over the side of the bed. “No, mistress, you can’t. It’s powerful stuff.”

  Footsteps and shouts advanced ever nearer. They didn’t have much time.

  “I must,” she insisted. “We’ll mix just a bit into my cup.”

  Shaking her head, Emma quickly did as she was bid. “I hope you’re not makin’ a dreadful mistake,” Emma said as she handed over the cup.

  “So do I.” Annora swallowed the tincture, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Help me bring him to the bed.”

  They dragged the inert man toward the bed as each sound from outside landed another blow on her shattered nerves.

  “I see blood on the leaves,” someone called.

  “Hurry!” Annora whispered.

  They tried to lift him, then nearly dropped him. His feet hit the floor.

  “Again,” she ordered, arms burning from the strain.

  Clumsily they heaved the man onto the bed. Annora threw the covers over him. His booted feet dangled over the edge. She tugged a blanket down, exposing his head.

  “His hair. They’d recognize that.”

  After wrapping a wool scarf around the thick, silvery mass, she gently turned his head toward the wall.

  “My lord, a cottage.” The voice came from just outside the window.

  Thank God the shutters were closed.

  As she breathed a prayer, Annora yanked off her loose gown and tossed it to Emma, who hung it on a peg next to her other gown. She thrust her hands in the bucket and washed the man’s blood off her wrist, then splashed water on her face and neckline of her chemise to simulate sweat, raising gooseflesh on her skin. Strands of wet hair tickled her cheek as she clambered into bed.

  “So much for my vow of never letting a man in my bed again,” she said as a wave of nausea rolled over her. “It’s begun. Hand me the other bucket. The rest is up to you.”

  “Don’t make me let them in,” Emma pleaded. “Please.”

  “They’ll see the smoke. They’ll know we’re here,” Annora said. “This is the best plan.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Tell them…tell them it’s the plague.”

  “Open the door!” a man called.

  Several loud bangs resounded.

  A stronger bout of nausea assailed Annora, obscuring some of the fear of unknown men outside and a strange man inside. In her bed. She brought the bucket close.

  “Open in the name of Jankyn ap Lewis.”

  Dread warred with queasiness. She’d heard of him, one of the powerful Marcher lords who controlled the border between England and Wales with almost as much authority as the king. What had this silver-haired, extraordinary figure of a man done to offend him?

  Annora’s stomach roiled. She vomited into the bucket. The antimony was working with greater efficacy than she’d hoped. Her head spun, her throat stung. But she needed to keep her wits about her.

  Shaking like the last leaf on a tree in autumn, Emma opened the door. A man in full armor stomped in, ducking his head as the plume in his helmet brushed the lintel. Many soldiers crowded behind.

  Annora vomited violently, not having to enhance the unpleasant sounds the purgative forced from her. Shuddering gasps racked her. She barely maintained her grip on the bucket.

  “Go away afore ’tis too late,” Emma wailed. “Me daughter’s very ill. I think she’s got the plague.”

  Several soldiers stepped back, making the sign of the cross. Emma crossed herself and bowed her head.

  The knight pulled off his visor, revealing sweat-soaked dark hair framing a long, thin face. “Lucky for me, I’ve had plague. They say you can’t catch it twice.” His keen gaze made short work of the small cottage. “I’m Jankyn ap Lewis. We seek a man. A very tall man with silver hair and distinctive blue eyes named Morgan ap Myrddin. Have you seen him?”

  “Who’d come all the way up here?” Emma asked.

  Annora retched again. She wanted to succumb to the blackness tugging at her, but forced herself to pay attention.

  Jankyn ap Lewis frowned. “That’s not an answer. Have you seen him? We last spotted him close by. Saw some fresh blood on the ground near your cottage. We thought— Who else is in that bed?”

  He strode forward, armor clanging. Emma blocked him. “My…mother. She’s worse off than my daughter, nigh unto dying, I fear.”

  Annora saw tears in Emma’s eyes, her maid was that afraid. She yearned for the day she could reward Emma for her tireless assistance.

  For the first time since the soldiers arrived she felt able to speak without being sick. “Have you any medicine to spare, kind sir? We’ve run out.”

  Did she sound convincingly pathetic?

  “No, I don’t. You need to take care. Morgan ap Myrddin is dangerous. Very dangerous. And stronger than any man I’ve ever seen.” The Marcher lord cleared his throat. “My men will patrol the area in case he shows himself.”

  Something about the way Jankyn ap Lewis spoke and how he used his hands reminded Annora of her uncle. Both men made her skin crawl.

  “Morgan ap Myrddin is rumored to have abilities beyond your imagining. They say he is…that he can…never mind.” Ap Lewis bowed stiffly. “Forgive the disturbance. Mistress, I hope your family survives.” He nodded to Emma, put on his helmet and turned to leave.

  Annora collapsed against the pillows with relief. They’d fooled the soldiers.

  A groan emanated from the man beside her. A distinctly male groan.

  Jankyn ap Lewis spun around. “What was that?”

  Every muscle in her body tensed. Heart thumping, she lowered her voice and moaned. She feared her attempt sounded similar to a sick goat, not a sick woman. Once more her stomach rose to her throat, and she vomited noisily.

  Ap Lewis put his helmet on. “No lady should be at the mercy of a man like him. Had I enough soldiers, I’d leave one to protect you.”

  Or to keep watch for Morgan ap Myrddin. Ap Lewis reminded her of the greased pig she’d chased as a young girl. The minute she got her hands on him, he slithered away. Instinct warned this Marcher lord was not to be trusted.

  “He killed several of my best men,” he continued. “Broke their necks with his bare hands. After my arrow found it
s mark.” He paused, as if to let his words sink in. “Don’t look so frightened, Mistress. We’ll find him, sooner or later.”

  He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Neither woman moved until the marching faded away. Emma lifted a slat in the shutter and peeked out.

  “They’ve gone. For now.”

  Drained in more ways than one, Annora closed her eyes. The man beside her had to be Morgan ap Myrddin. Was she in bed with a murderer, a man who might’ve committed far more heinous acts than her uncle? Weakness and helplessness threatened, as they had after Roger’s beatings.

  But she wasn’t the same woman who had cowered beneath Roger’s fists, victimized by his lies. She’d broken free, and would make her own decisions. Despite her limited resources.

  Her mouth felt drier than the herbs hanging above her head. “Water,” she gasped.

  Emma dipped a cup into the fresh water bucket. She took a deep breath, then with a grimace grabbed the spew-filled bucket from Annora as she handed her the cup. “What have we done? We’re harboring a murderer! What did Jankyn ap Lewis mean, abilities beyond our imagining? If he has the magic, he could put a spell on us.”

  She set the bucket in the far corner and made the sign of the cross again.

  Annora drank, cool water soothing her burning throat. Slowly she climbed out of bed, her stomach still roiling. Sir Roger’s niece would’ve been petrified. But Annora of Amberton had to be strong if she wanted to get her home back. If she wanted to prevail over her avaricious uncle and return to her people.

  “We don’t know for certain this man did such horrible things. Jankyn ap Lewis likely lied to scare us into helping him.” As many men of power would do. “As Sir Roger lied about me being a lunatic.”

  Morgan ap Myrddin hadn’t moved since the soldiers left. His breathing continued, slow and shallow. His skin was pale as the statues in Amberton’s gardens. Unlike lifeless marble, he drew her. He’d enlisted her aid with a single, intense look, a few hastily spoken words. Was she doomed to yield to any man’s will?

  No. She’d decided to help him on her own.