Fire Raven (40 page)

Lindsay struck a cocky pose. “Not so simple, eh?”

The smithy reddened and cursed, throwing all of his effort into the trial. At last he lifted the claymore, but his thick wrist shook so with the effort, he was unable to steady the sword, much less swing it about his head. Had he tried, Morgan was certain he would have lost his ears in the attempt.

The men watching exclaimed with disbelief. One by one, they stepped forward, eager to proffer their coin and try their hand at lifting mighty Hugo’s sword. One by one, they tested their strength against the weight of the weapon, laughing drunkenly at the others who failed till they themselves were proven weaklings, in turn.

Watching from the corner, Lindsay grinned at the spectacle he had created, while surreptitiously counting the growing mound of silver in his palm. Morgan supposed the lad might be accounted handsome, was he not so damned sly.

A shock of dark hair dangled over young Lindsay’s brow. His eyes were a peculiar shade of violet-blue. He obviously had the canny instincts of a fox. Aware of being watched, Lindsay’s gaze swept around the inn’s common room until they alighted on Morgan sitting alone in the corner.

“Good sir,” the lad called out, “will you not try your hand at Hugo’s sword? You look a sturdy sort.”

Morgan deliberately turned his bare left cheek to the light of the torches. To his credit, Lindsay didn’t flinch.

“Fifteen shillings,” the lad coaxed.

“I’ve no time for your Highland Games,” Morgan said, rising and tossing his black cloak around his shoulders. He reached into the kid purse tied to his waist and pitched coins upon the plank table as he left.

Lindsay stepped directly in his path. The lad was a full head shorter than Morgan, and his chest had scarce filled out. His confident stance betrayed no awareness of the fact Morgan was irritated.

“Well met, sir. Methinks you were privy to our earlier discussion. I note by your speech and manner y’are of Welsh descent yourself. I’d would fain know, before you leave, what think you of the notion of independent nations?”

Morgan glimpsed a mischievous twinkle in the violet eyes.

“What I think,” he said, with deliberate emphasis, “is that you have imbibed too much drink, Master Lindsay.”

“Och, ’tis a sorry day indeed when a Highlander canna hold his ale,” Lindsay moaned, slapping his forehead in dramatic fashion and speaking in a thick, Scottish burr. Morgan was not fooled. Only moments before, the lad’s English was as flawlessly executed as his sham with the sword, a sword he suspected was filled with lead. He and Hugo the Giant had apparently cooked up some bit of tomfoolery to relieve unsuspecting patrons of their hard-earned coins.

Noting Lindsay’s surreptitious glance in the direction of his purse, Morgan took a perverse delight in lingering and baiting the lad. He folded his arms and matched the boy’s casual stance.

“Concerning politics, and being a Welshman myself, y’know I must be loyal to the Tudor line,” Morgan said.

“Och, I see it. Else how would ye acquire such a grievous wound?” Lindsay peered closer at Morgan’s face. “Sweet Jesu, mon, ye should hae that cut stitched. ’Tis a right angry sight. Did ye earn it in battle for yer Virgin Queen?”

“Nay. Rather, I should think, with Satan.” Morgan gave a short laugh, obviously confusing the youth. “Speaking of battles, boy, I believe ’twould do you well to practice a more honorable art than picking pockets.”

Lindsay’s brow furrowed. His roving fingers swiftly withdraw from Morgan’s cloak.

“Are you so greedy a nip a few crowns are worth your life?” Morgan inquired.

Despite being caught in the act, Lindsay summoned a brash grin.
S’blood
, Morgan thought with amazement,
this Lindsay is a cheeky fellow, bold as a badger and cunning as a fox.

“I would but inquire after your tailor, sir,” the lad innocently rejoined. “The cut of your cloak is uncommonly fine.”

“So is the cut of my blade,” Morgan retorted.

Feigning surprise, Lindsay blinked his violet-blue eyes — pretty eyes which, like as not, called upon him to defend his manhood now and again. Even the lad’s lashes were too long and far better suited to a girl, Morgan decided. Though doubtless Lindsay’s good looks and charming manners had freed him from scrapes before.

“Further,” Morgan added, gesturing to the doorway behind Lindsay, “were you not a baseborn thief, you would surely be accounted a blithering fool for spouting such treasonous slop before a contingent of the queen’s guard.”

Lindsay’s jaw dropped. He didn’t notice Morgan’s departure as he whirled to confront a set of unsmiling faces looming in the doorway of the inn. They belonged to six soldiers wearing the Tudor green and gold.

M
ORGAN HEARD THE FRACAS
break out in the inn below his rented room. While idly listening to the shouts and curses and clashes of steel, he peeled off his leather jerkin and doublet, set them aside, and tended his breeches and boots. For the better part of an hour, the floor beneath him vibrated with the screams and groans of over a dozen men. He heard an enraged shout, resembling the bellow of a baited bear, and gathered the mighty Hugo felt compelled to lift his fake claymore for the Cause.

With a wry head shake, Morgan finished undressing and slipped beneath the threadbare covers onto a hard, lumpy mattress. The shouts became less distinct as a chase ensued, and the excited whinny of horses and hoof beats pounded off into the night. He wondered if young Lindsay had eluded his fate. He suspected the knave had escaped due justice before.

Morgan closed his eyes and thought of Kat instead. He wondered if she were safe at Falcon’s Lair and, if so, what she was doing at this moment. Mayhap she slept, curled into an endearing fetal position, as his child so slumbered in her womb. Sweet Jesu. His babe. Morgan’s eyes flew open, his breathing quickened. The consequences had not truly dawned on him until now. Children oft resembled their parents in feature and form. What if the damned devil’s mark surfaced for another generation? Another line of doomed Trelanes. Little wonder he could not sleep.

T
HE ROAD WAS SCARCELY
passable in the morning, but Morgan and Jimson pressed on. Mud slopped about the horses’ fetlocks and made their progress cursedly slow. They passed any number of mired coaches and wagons, and Morgan was glad he’d left the rest of his men at Falcon’s Lair rather than traveling with a full brace of escort. Else he should feel obligated to stop and assist each stranded traveler, and he was anxious to reach home.

While he rode, Morgan remembered his first and only audience with England’s aged queen. When the summons had arrived at Hartshorn, he debated refusing the royal order, risking the danger of imprisonment. He did not need to attend to Elizabeth Tudor to know the queen was livid over his marriage and, quite possibly, his Spanish heritage.

In the end, Morgan went to Whitehall, as commanded. He decided he would not endanger others — most notably Kat’s family — with his stubbornness. At Whitehall, he learned Sir Christopher Tanner had already tried to intervene on his and Kat’s behalf, yet nothing, it seemed, would appease Bess Tudor but an audience with the petty Welsh baron who had defied her wishes.

Despite the fact that Morgan had, in truth, been tricked into marrying Kat, he knew he dared not count upon the queen’s sympathies. Bess was ever vigilant against those she believed wronged her or her favorites. She had approved a marriage between Morgan and Mistress Margaret Tanner; the clever substitution of Maggie’s cousin was not to be borne.

“I may be an old woman, Trelane,” Elizabeth Tudor said, when he was presented, “but I am not a fool. Had you wished an annulment from Lady Katherine, you might have had one by now. Therefore, I must concur you a party to treason.”

“Treason, Your Majesty?” Morgan stepped forward from the shadows in the receiving room. He made no attempt to conceal his face. He saw the queen blink, as if straining to see him, and realized her eyesight was failing, along with her health.

England’s Gloriana, though still regal in her ruff, bright tan silk gown and crown jewels, was five and three score now. An auburn wig replaced the thinning hair; white powder and paint smoothed her wrinkles. By contrast Elizabeth’s hands remained youthful in appearance and glittered, in her vanity, with half a dozen rings. She used those beautiful white hands to advantage, waving one at him in a dismissing fashion.

“Mayhap treason is too strong a word,” Elizabeth granted. She had mellowed in her old age, Morgan decided. But he was not lulled into complacency: Even old dogs had sharp teeth. For over two score, Elizabeth had ruled with an iron fist; she was the only monarch many remembered in their lifetime. Few but the elderly spoke of Henry Tudor anymore: of once watching golden prince Hal ride in the glorious tournaments of yesteryear, and of later witnessing the long, sad succession of the king’s wives.

“Y’are uncommon quiet,” Elizabeth observed, leaning forward in her throne. “I dislike silence. Methinks it breeds conspiracy.”

“Of a Spanish nature?” Morgan inquired. He did not curb the sharp tone in time.

Elizabeth released an unladylike snort. Whatever falsehoods the Earl of Cardiff had whispered in his monarch’s ear, the queen was wise enough to examine the facts with some measure of impartiality.

“Your heritage does you no credit, Trelane, but I hold no blood against a man who serves me loyally. Even a bastard may appeal to me for mercy.”

“I am no bastard,” Morgan quietly said.

“True. Your father was a fine man, who served his young liege with honor during m’sire’s reign. ’Tis unfortunate he wed, unwisely, a Spanish harlot, from what I understand.”

“No harlot, Your Grace, merely a lady of tortured mind and soul.”

“’Pon my word, sirrah, y’are quick to defend a papist who committed a mortal sin,” Elizabeth said, as she observed his flashing eyes. “’Twas a great scandal, as I recall. There are those who still whisper as to the cause.”

“I fear I am the cause, Your Majesty.” With sudden humility Morgan came forward and knelt on the steps at her feet, so she might better appreciate the tragic view. He sensed Elizabeth softening before he lifted his face to the light.

“Ah, so the rumors are true, milord,” she murmured. Morgan was surprised at the tender note in the queen’s voice, more so by her next gesture. Elizabeth touched his blemish with her cool ivory fingers.

“This is the bane keeping you from my Court, eh? Such a slight thing it seems on the surface, yet a great chasm indeed to one who is accounted perfect in every other manner.”

Morgan felt blood rush to his face. “Your Grace — ” he began.

Elizabeth shook her head, stilling any excuses or explanations. “Y’know, I favor a fair countenance, Trelane. In this methinks I am no different than any common maid. ’Tis rare for a woman to love a flawed man without reserve, I trow, lest there is some great fortune to be had. Have you a mighty fortune, sirrah?”

“Your Majesty must know I have not.”

“Ah, then. Here’s the crux of the matter. Pray tell, what impractical demon possessed Lady Katherine to pursue marriage to a lowly baron with unfortunate looks?”

Morgan flushed. “I know not, Your Grace.”

“Faith, d’you not?” Elizabeth looked amused by his distress. “I wager, by your high color, Master Humble, that y’know very well. Does the notion of your lady wife’s affections sit so ill with you?”

Morgan shook his head. “Nay. However, as Your Grace already observed, even a common maid prefers perfection to a blasphemy upon nature.”

“A common maid, aye,” Elizabeth said, “but, I vow, common is too colorless a word for our Katherine. How many women d’you know who sail their own vessels, Trelane?”

“Only Kat, Your Majesty.”

“And I know but two. Lady Kat, as you said, and her feckless mother, Madam Bryony Tanner.” Elizabeth’s expression was wry. “Both have sore tried m’temper at times, but I confess they are fascinating females. One cannot count them among my gently bred, courtly lot of ladies.”

Morgan smiled at her airy observation. “Indeed.”

“A likely pair of lady pigeons, whose wings peradventure will not be clipped,” Elizabeth mused, seeming pleased by her own poetic description. “Come now, Trelane. D’you not count yourself among the most fortunate of men?”