Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (23 page)

Plato tossed the ceremonial kilt and tartan onto the bed and swiveled
around. “Whatever it takes, do it! Do it now! There are clansmen on my heels,
and that bolt is not going to hold, and she has to be Squire Morgan a-fore then!”

“Quickly, Morgan. Up. I’ll help. The clans are here. I d
oona’
dare believe it,” Zander voice held the reverence. “All I’ve been trying to accomplish for years, you have done in less than a fortnight. Up, love!”

“Wait
until you see them, too! ’Tis quite a sight. Why, when The Bruce saw
the extent of Morgan’s drawing power, he was out there speaking. He has been
all morn. He has been promising the great champion, Squire Morgan, to them.
The FitzHugh clan has been sent to do his bidding.”

Morgan was shrinking into the midst of the bed, and felt smaller and
smaller. This was nothing like what she wanted.

“I will be at your side, my love. D
oona’ doubt it.” Zander spoke softly,
but she heard it. She met his eyes.

There was a thunderous blow on the door. Their eyes widened for a
momentous flicker of time, and then she was flying into her under-tunic, shirt,
socks. Zander was wrapping
the feile-breacan
about her, and tossing it over her
shoulder and slapping the belt on her hips. He handed her the dragon blade last.

“I have na’ donned the loin-wrap,” she whispered.

His eyebrows went up and down several times. “And here I thought you
dinna’ wish my interest.”

“
Will you two cease that and get ready?”

“
He is ready, Plato. Can you braid hair?”

Plato swiveled back around, his eyes showing the amazement. “She must be part lad. No female dresses so quickly. And nay, I have na
e experience with a
braid. My regrets, lad.”

“I
doona’ need help. I have done it myself for years. Where are my dirks?
My brooch?”

Plato put the bag on the table, and the clink told her it contained all she
needed. Morgan slid the dragon blade into the front of her belt, against her stomach, and then started putting dirks in her socks and the back of
her belt, slipped her silver wrists bands on and pinned her brooch.

Another blow
came to the door, and Plato stood behind it. “To spare Argylle
from replacing another bolt to your chamber, I will spring this. Are you prepared?”

Morgan’s wide eyes met Zander’s again. She was threading hair through
her fingers as quickly as she could and Zander was just finishing the hooking of his dragon brooch. Time stood still, and then he smiled.

Plato opened the door.

Zander had to carry her. There were too many about the hall, and too
many wishing to touch her. When they reached the battlements, Morgan
would have fallen, if Zander hadn’t hoisted her on his shoulder, turning her to
face what appeared to be a virtual sea of men in tartans, all yelling, all calling, all
cheering.

She was shaking before they reached the fields.

~ ~ ~

There followed the strangest day in Morgan’s life. She met up with King
Robert at the portcullis above the drawbridge. Then, she and Zander were put
on horseback, and she was trotted out. The Bruce told her that these weren’t
all the clans, after all. These were the lowland ones, the ones that were the
hardest for him to sway.

Morgan listened and tried to make sense of it. The Highlanders were far
north, well away from English influence and used to any hardship. Anything forced upon them by the Sassenach was tossed off until the punishment, and it was usually harsher, too. They lived to fight, and if it weren’t a rival clan, it was
the English. King Robert preferred that it be the English. Zander fit that mold
, she decided.

The lowlanders were harder for Robert to convince. They were like
Argylle. They shared the border with England, had wed into English families, used English ways, and since they were closer to English punishments, their obedience was usually swifter. The man who had
been crowned king of a country that wasn’t even independent, needed the
lowlanders if he was to succeed. He needed what was happening, and that meant
he needed Morgan.

Zander beamed at her side all through this impassioned speech,
and then they reached the first clan. Morgan sat her horse, watched all the faces
and shook with the fear. Then, some loud-mouthed braggart lifted a walking
stick in the air, and challenged her to show why anyone would walk leagues to see a pretty-faced, thin lad in FitzHugh plaid. Before anyone could turn to watch, Morgan had twelve dirks in a row on his stick, and the dragon blade ready for a
final toss.

In the shock
ed quiet immediately following her tosses, Robert the Bruce started talking. He stood up in his stirrups and began addressing all in
hearing. He had the same type of great oratorical voice that Zander
possessed. It made shivers flow over Morgan’s shoulders and down both arms, and that happened no matter how many times she heard the speech he gave
.

Morgan and Zander were accompanied by FitzHugh clansmen, and they
had the chore of retrieving her dirks and getting them back to her. It became an
all-day chore, for at each clan the king raised his hand to address a clan, she was given the nod to show off first.

It began to be a competition to see which of the clans could make her miss. Morgan’s lips twitched as she watched the young lads take off running the
moment she’d finished, and The Bruce launched into his speech. The lads
were spreading the word, and the targets became smaller and smaller and farther
and farther away. One fellow even held up a tankard, open-end facing her, and
challenged her to put her dirks in it.

The amusing part was they wouldn’t stay, and as each clanged in, it
immediately dropped back out, making a warble like a songbird’s. The king had to wait for the cheering to die out that time, before he could launch into his speech.
Morgan wasn’t really listening, though. She was looking into all the eyes that gazed
up at her and her shivers weren’t from any speech; they were from
some intangible quality of the crowd.

Zander was at her side all day. He was the one handing her the dirks each time
. Later, it was a crust of bread, a joint of roast beef from one clan, a
dram of whiskey from another. Morgan had never felt so alive. It was better
than any bit of skill she’d ever shown, better than bringing down any kill, better than anything she’d known, except loving Zander.

The
king was tireless, speaking until he was hoarse, and then continuing
in a glorified whisper which Zander orated for him. They reached the castle again. Morgan hadn’t realized they’d gone in a complete circle, covering as much acreage as the clans were covering. There were torches
and camps set out as far as the eye could see. The sun was setting, and, as The Bruce announced once they arrived,
there was a wedding to witness.

Morgan didn’t know if her legs w
ould be able to hold her, but Zander didn’t
let her drop that far anyway. He eased her from the horse, hoisting her to his shoulder and bearing her to the doors of the chapel before letting her down to the side of
him.

“
You have done what I have been attempting for years, Morganna,”
he said. “You have gathered the clans and given our sovereign time to speak with them, and actually made them listen. For the first time in my life, I think
Scotland has a chance. If it would na’ ruin everything, I would take you in my arms right now, and give you every bit of love I have for you. We might not
survive it.”

Morgan’s eyes were wide
from his words, and she’d heard wonderful
speeches all day. It was a good thing Zander wasn’t using his great orator voice
at the moment, she decided.

The doors of the chapel were opened, and they went from
the loud,
boisterous noise of a crowd to sanctified, candle-lit reverence in the blink of an eye. Morgan held her breath at the beauty of Argylle’s chapel: the stained glass in the windows, the arched beams in the ceiling, the carved wood of the pews, and the swell of music coming from a choir alongside the altar.

Zander was being directed to the spot of honor at his brother’s right side,
and Morgan watched him go with the greatest sense of loss in the world. The
Bruce had her with him, surrounded by nobles and attendants and humanity, but
Morgan felt alone for the first time since she’d awakened. It shocked her, too.
She was used to being alone. She was used to having no one, save herself, to rely on, no one to care about, and nobody who cared about her.

She didn’t think she liked knowing the lost and
lonesome feeling.

Her legs were a little wobbly, too. She stiffened her knees and
backed
to the wall, with the other squires, when the Lady Gwynneth came in.
That’s when Morgan knew for a certainty, that she had done the right thing, at
least by Plato and his bride-to-be. Lady Gwynneth was wearing a bead-encrusted dress, more resembling jeweled water than material, and the train that stretched behind her went the entire length of the chapel.

It seemed everyone was holding their breath, and when the bride’s face was uncovered by the shaking hands of her groom, there was an audible sigh at how lovely she was. Morgan knew the difference immediately. Gwynneth was
no longer unhappy. She was aglow with the joy.

Morgan met Zander’s eye and had to look a
way. She couldn’t hold his
gaze. She could barely stand to be around such happiness and love and peace
permeating the air. It wasn’t for her. It never would be. She’d been spawned
into hate and death when she was too young to change it, and despite Zander’s
assurances that love would heal her, she knew the truth. Nothing could change it
now. She brought a hand to her breast to touch the KilCreggar square, and for some reason, thought she received the peace she craved.

She still had her face averted when the couple was pronounced wed, and
led, with wild cheering and ceremony from the chapel. Morgan only had a moment’s hesitation to wonder where Zander was before he was at her side, his hand touching hers as he bent to her ear.

“
Plato wishes me to tell you of his thanks. He wants you to have this.”

Morgan looked down at the ring Zander pressed into her palm. She had
seen it on Plato’s hand more than once, and the dark sapphire in its center was an uncomfortable reminder of the shade of a certain FitzHugh’s eyes. She curled
her palm around it and felt it burn. Not as badly as the instant tears, but
badly enough.

She had to blink them away.

Now, she truly was being paid.

“I shall
tell him it brought you to tears, should he ask. Stay close, Morganna
lass. We’ve a celebration to start. I’ve a plan.”

“A plan for what?” she whispered.

His lips pursed. “‘For what?’ she asks,” he said. “To get you in my bed and at my side. What else?”

“Zander, I
—”

She stopped her words as the emotion choked her off. It didn’t help that
the world stopped making noise, the wedding witnesses all ceased to exist, and dark blue, sapphire-toned eyes grew until that’s all she saw. Morgan gulped.

“I love you, Morganna
,” he whispered. “Never doubt it. ’Tis all I think of, and all I know. I want all of
this for you.” He stopped and looked about them, then he returned his gaze to
her. She hadn’t moved her eyes. “I want you at my side always. I want you as
my wife, and I want to be your husband. As God is my witness, it will come to
pass, too. You have my promise.”

“Zander
—”

He put a finger to his lips.
“Doona’ argue in a house of the Lord. Wait.
I’m being patient, too.”

“You are?”

“Aye. I am waiting until we are outside to tell you my plan. That is as
patient as I am willing to be.”

“Why?” she asked.

‘‘Because I want you in my arms, and I want to be buried in you, and I want to share your breath and your body, and that kilt shows too damned much
of your legs, and you wear no loin-wrap, and a slew of other things. What do
you mean why?”

Morgan swallowed. “I mean, why do you wait to speak it?”