Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (27 page)

“But, he just wed,” Morgan whispered.

“Aye, but he had a day and two nights with his bride to put his love into
her, and his seed. Unlike me. I am the luckier one, I think.”

“
Will you cease speaking of that, and get serious?”

He went cross-legged before her, and waited. Morgan had to look. It
was what he was waiting for.

“There is too much death and hate and pain and seriousness to the world,
Morgan. And, while it canna’ be avoided, and has a place, there needs to be
equal time given to the joys of life. I am trying to teach you that. I would like to think I have shown a little of it. I would double my efforts, if I dinna’ think it
might kill me.”

She sucked in the breath. “Zander FitzHugh,” she said, in what she hoped was her sternest voice.

He sighed hugely, making that chest rise and fall. “Oh verra well, Squire
Morgan. You are the most humorless person I know. I am na’ an ugly man. I
am na’ a weak man. I am known throughout the Highlands as a verra wealthy
man. Any father would want me for a husband to his daughter. I have been so
told. I could have had any number of lasses begging for a glimmer of my smile, a flirtatious glance, the chance to match their body against mine, and receive me.
Why, I could have fallen in love with dozens of lasses that find play as absorbing
as I do…but no. I had to search out and pluck the most deadly serious woman ever birthed. Verra well. What is it you wish to know?”

She looked up into those midnight
-blue eyes and couldn’t find one iota of
thought in her head. Everything fled. Then he grinned, and the rush of emotion
to the top of her head was so quick and vicious, she very nearly returned his smile, despite hating him for what he had done to her. Her eyes widened, and at that moment, the bairn she already was so mixed-up about, decided to make his presence known again by the gentlest twinge.

Morgan
caught the breath, thanked the heavens for her already wide eyes,
and prayed the shock didn’t show.

“
Plato knows he will have Gwynneth for the rest of his life. ’Tis the gift
you gave to them. She canna’ travel with us, though. She had too gentle an
upbringing, and is too weak. She’ll be awaiting his return. He knows it.”

“
Wh—what?” Morgan stammered on the word.

“I think you asked of Plato. I think your question was one of surprise to
find out he was ahead of the king, and na’ at Argylle Castle attending to putting a
bairn in his wife’s belly. I think you wished to know the why of it.”

Her face flamed.

“P
lato is a Scotsman, Morgan, and while he likes play as much as the next
man, he has a glorious speaking voice, too. He uses his talents for the same thing
we use ours for...creating a new life.”

“Wh
—what?” she stammered through the simple word again, and felt the
gut-choking reaction at the same time.
He does know!
she thought, with what
could only be described as complete panic.

“A new life for Scotland, and all her people. Plato would na’ let me have
all the glory. Besides, he is repaying a debt.”

“He owes the king?”

“Nay. ’Tis not that sort of debt. Oh, here is Scribe Martin, now. Look
at him, Morgan, rolled scrolls beneath his arms, quills stuffed behind his ears, and
ink-stains on most his fingers. His services are in much demand, and I freed him
two moons past to do so. I am impressed, Scribe Martin, but what is this? Turn
about. A braid?”

The boy flushed, pivoted and turned back around. Morgan watched him
do it. It was true, too. He hadn’t long hair, but what he had was twined into a
braid and the end tucked beneath his shirt. Morgan met Zander’s eyes and when he nodded she looked away.

“They
all wish to look just like my squire. They wish to be my squire. I
wonder why. I must be a wonderful master.”

Morgan snorted the amusement, along with Martin, who went to a knee beside them.
He had a scroll unrolled and draped across his knee, a quill
poised atop it, and a serious look to his face. This lad had certainly changed
since the slingshot contest at the fair, Morgan thought, watching him.

“You wish a message written, Lord Zander?”

“Get a message to Plato. Tell him it is time. Tell him I wish him in two
days hence at the Cathedral St. Machar, and he is to bring all I specified. You
have that?”

“Aye.” The boy was concentrating and writing. He stuck his tongue out
one side of his mouth as he did so. Morgan watched him do it. It was clear he
had the talent for stone-throwing, but he looked to be an excellent scribe, too. She was surprised that Zander had known, and seen it accomplished, and
wondered why she should be. He always seemed to know.

“You have wax for the seal?” Zander asked.

Martin nodded, stood and went from the tent. Morgan watched him do
it.
Wax?
she wondered. He was back within moments, a thumb-sized blot of
dull yellow at the scroll’s edge. Zander reached for the dragon brooch he wore
on his tartan, removed it, and pressed it into the wax. Morgan watched it all,
including the finished result.

“You think a brooch simply for ornamentation, squire?” Zander teased.

“I dinna’ know that purpose. ’Tis grand. That may be why. ’Tis only
the nobles who need such.”

He frowned at that and lifted the dragon to look at it.
“Hand me the dragon blade,” he said.

Scribe Martin made a sound of awe as she pulled it out and handed it to
Zander. She’d forgotten how impressive the blade was. Zander held it to the
light, looked at his brooch and then looked at the blade again. Then, he looked
at Martin.

“Can you design another crest, Scribe Martin?”

“Design?” the lad choked.

“Aye,” Zander continued.
“Not one dragon, but two. Inter-twined, like
the hilt of this knife. You see how the tails spin together, making a whole? You
see?”

The lad nodded.

“Can you transfer that to your paper? Can you design a seal?”

“But, you already have a seal, Zander,” Morgan pointed out.

He looked across the blade at her, and Morgan’s back went ramrod stiff
with how it felt. She knew then exactly what he’d been speaking of in Aberdeen
earlier. It was hard and fast. It was strong and virile. It was fresh and pure.
Her ears roared with it on every heartbeat. He held out her dragon blade. She
took it.

“True enough,” he replied, and looked back at Martin.
“Well? I would
like to see the result on the morrow. Now go. You have a design to envision
and bring to life. I have a stage to see to, and check. My squire has the task of
resting. He needs his rest. His aim must be true and accurate and faultless this eve. For that, he will need some rest. You can do this, Morgan, or will you
require me to stay and make certain of it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I d
oona’ need rest. I am as capable as
always.”

He grinned, and leveraged himself back to his feet. “Come, Scribe Martin. What the squire
is saying is he canna’ sleep if we sit on his bed area on the
floor. Is na’ that what you speak of, Morgan lad?”

“Zander—,” she began, using a threatening tone.

“
Eagan stands at your tent door, Squire Morgan. He will make certain
none disturb you until ’tis time. Seek some sleep. You will need it. This eve’s
performance will require it. I guarantee it.”

He was winking as he left, slapping the door flap back into place, and even though he couldn’t see it, she put the dragon blade into the pole in front of
him, anyway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Morgan stood on the top cross-piece of an entire lattice-work frame of cross-pieces and waited. She had been dressed in a different
feile-breacan
this
time. The wool strands had been spun thicker, and brushed to a softness she’d never felt the like of, before being woven into the FitzHugh sett. They had
woven strands of purest silver through it, too, giving off slashes of light
whenever she moved. It was warmer, too. Almost warm enough to stop her
shaking.

She had an under-tunic of the softest flax next to her skin, and a shirt
that was a masterpiece of embroidery, with silvered threads plied through her short, wide sleeves and over her shoulders, where they turned into two dragons at her back. She had her silver bands at her wrists, her silver belt about her hips,
and silver ribbon woven through her braid. The richness of her attire had amazed her when she first dressed, and it still did.

She had
a long bow at her side, and their smithy had hammered silver into it,
too. She was a FitzHugh squire, and the FitzHughs were very proud of that fact.
Every inch of her body was covered to show it, even down to the new, thick leather boots on her feet, and the dark blue socks on her legs. She had very nearly cried when she’d donned it earlier with Zander’s help, and for once, he
wasn’t playing, but reverently placing each article of clothing on her body, his
eyes never leaving hers.

It was fitting, she supposed. She was the whore of a FitzHugh lord, she
was carrying a FitzHugh bastard, and she was bringing glory to the FitzHugh clan
beyond what they’d known. She might as was be dressed head-to-toe in
FitzHugh color and wealth.

For a KilCreggar intent on vengeance, she was an abject failure, however.

There was a row of thirty-nine dirks placed along the edge of her peat-enclosed cone. They had braided twine attached to each hilt at one end, and
at the other, to the top of her stage. The twine hung down to make loops. Each
bit of twine had been soaked in pitch until it was almost black and made the
enclosure reek with it. She still wondered at Zander’s optimism with this bit of
his plan working.

They had placed a FitzHugh clansman in each of forty trees, too, holding
a target, and with a bucket of moss at his side. The targets were difficult to see,
even for those who knew where they were. Zander had pointed them out. He
had also shown her the bit of silver that had been melted, poured and then
flattened into the center of each target, to give her a clear view when the
clansman moved it, flickering it for her.

All that was left was lighting the bonfires on all four sides of her stage.
There was a raised platform, too. In the largest clearing, directly facing Old
Aberdeen burgh, and with a clear view from the mountains, was the stage that The Bruce was going to be waiting on. It was the one she had to hit, with each
and every one of her dirks.

“Ready, lads?”

Eagan had too loud a whisper for this type of production, but Zander
needed someone to hold a torch high enough he could reach, dip each arrow, and
then get it up to her. Morgan looked down at where Zander straddled two
cross-beams, taking the brunt of his acrobatic position with his knees. She
couldn’t believe the chore he’d placed on himself. He was going to swing down,
grab up an arrow, then swing back up, to hand it to her. He then had to swing back down, get another arrow, then return. All of forty times.

Then, he had to get the torch up to light the twine. It was as amazing as
it was impossible. She smiled. And she’d thought he needed a lesson on balance,
she reminded herself.

She looked out. They were lighting the bonfires. All she had to await
was the bagpipers. If she looked out, she could still see the acres of people,
filling every space of the clearing and every slope of the hills beyond.

Pipes started.

“Now, Eagan!”

The plan went flawlessly. Morgan stepped onto the top of the platform, highlighted easily by the bonfires, and a hush fell as they saw her. Then, there was an arrow in her hand. She planted herself, took aim on the flash in the tree, and sent a flam
ing arrow arcing toward it. The moment she heard it hit wood, there was
another arrow in her hand. She took aim, and had the next target. Another
arrow, another target. Cheers were starting up by the fourth, and deafening by the tenth, but she didn’t hear anything except her own heartbeat.

When the circle about the enclosure was ringed with fire atop
the trees, she started planting the dirks. Zander wanted the fire to reach the
stage, before the treed FitzHughs were to put each target out with their supply of
wet moss.

Morgan lifted the blade that was the farthest left, and put it at The
Bruce’s left heel. Then, she methodically put all the others in a ring behind him. Zander was beside her then, on his knees to keep from being seen, in all his huffing, puffing and sweating solidness. He was touching the torch to the pitched
parts of the twine, before he was gone again, disappearing to get the torch back to Eagan and out of the cone before anyone saw it.

Morgan watched the fire race down the lines she’d placed, perfectly
lighting King Robert, and gaining such momentous applause, the ground seemed
to shake with it.

“Time to go, Morgan. Come.”

His hand was slick, so she held to his wrist, and he to hers, getting her
down the scaffold without incident, and then they were out. Morgan didn’t
realize the extent of the unearthly realm she’d been a participant of, until he had
her in the trees behind the tents, and she sucked in clear, frost-filled air that
hadn’t a tint of smoke to it.

“Good God, that was glorious!” Zander lifted her and swung her in a
complete circle, his voice loud. She didn’t stop him, because the noise had yet to
die down behind them from the clearing in the midst of the tents.

“Come love, we mustn’t tarry. Your evening is just beginning! Hold my
hand.”

They weren’t exactly running, but she had a stitch to her side, before he had her in the midst of some very strangely arranged stones. Zander dropped her
hand then, and waited. Morgan looked about. There was mist sneaking through a small circle of pillars that were not carved, but not natural, either. She looked
about, watched the moonlight glance off the mist, imbuing it with a translucent
quality, and then she looked at him.

“What is this
place?” she asked.

“The
ancients built it. It is a place of worship. I thought it fitting.”

“For what
?” she asked again.

He took a step toward her, disturbing the mist with the movement.
“For
worship,” he answered softly.

“
We shouldn’t be here, I think,” she said, moving a step backward as he
approached, to keep an arm’s span of distance between them.

“Oh yea, we should. I brought you here for a reason, Morganna, and that
reason still exists.”

“Zander—” she began, only to be interrupted.

“You always prevent me from trying to sway you with words. Why is
that, do you ken?”

He took another step. She backed one.

“I doona’ know what you mean,” she answered.

“You allow my body to worship yours, but you d
oona’ allow my heart to.
I would like the answer to why.”

Another step. A corresponding one backwards.

“You speak ceaseless words of love to me, Zander FitzHugh. I have
listened to them non-stop, I think.”

“I have spoken them, true. You have na’ listened, though.”

“I have! I had no choice.”

He took another step. She backed into a pillar and her eyes widened with the contact.

“Then, why do you fear me? Why do you back from me now? You know I will na’ do anything to harm you.”

“B
eing this close to you harms me, FitzHugh.”

He took the step that placed him directly in front of her, and there was no other place she could go.

“The Bruce will na’ need us during the winter months. The snows will come. The crowds will na’ risk the cold and damp to hear, and he will na’ risk it
to talk. The winter will be all ours, Morganna. There will be nae attempts at unifying the clans, no presentations to make, no showing off, no more tents. You know this to be true. The winter is all ours, Morganna. Yours and mine.”

“I d
oona’ know anything of the sort!”

He reached for her, but she slid around the side of the pillar, out of his
reach again. He was right behind her, but an arms’ length away again.

“
I doona’ know why you fight it so. You know I was made for you. You
know you were designed with me in mind. You know it.”

Morgan shivered, whether at the chill behind the mist, or at his words.
She didn’t want to have to find the reason why.

“...and yet you fight it,” he finished.

“I made a vow, FitzHugh. I doona’ take my vows lightly.”

“Nor I, mine,” he answered, taking a step closer to her.

Morgan backed one again. “Your vows are too lightly given, though.
You vowed a change. You vowed to give me a bairn. You vowed to take me to
wife, and none other. You vowed your ever-lasting love, and that you would
make me find the same for you. You have vowed to change the world. You
have vowed that love will change everything. You have vowed to help me end the horror of my dreams. You have vowed one thing or another every day since I came to you of my own free will. Which vow is it you take seriously,
FitzHugh? Which?”

He took another step, and she backed into another pillar, startling her. She thought them outside the circular enclosure. He closed the distance, put a hand on either side of her torso, leaned into her and put his nose against hers.
“All of them,” he answered.

The bairn she was carrying did the answering, as it twinged as strongly as
anything her heart could have. She caught her breath at it, and then the solid,
soft warmth of Zander’s lips were touching hers. Not to demand, not to take, not to seduce, but to worship, just as he’d said.

Morgan sighed, lifting her hands to the chest in front of her, whether to
push it away or hold to it, she didn’t know.

“U
ndo my dragon brooch,” he whispered against the flesh of her lower
lip. “Unpin it, Morganna. Now. Unfasten my brooch. Now. Do it, now.”

Her hands were already busy with the catch, and she didn’t even notice the minute stick of the pin when she had it gripped in her palm.

“N
ow drop it. Lower your hand and drop it.”

His voice was seductive and low, and
brushed against her cheek as he slid his
lips toward her ear. She opened her palm and then felt, rather than heard, the
brooch land on the ground beside her foot.

“
Now my blades. Pull each dirk and drop it blade-down. Then, unfasten
my belt. Slowly. Start now, Morganna...now.”

He had the lobe of her ear in his lips and was darting his tongue all
around, and she curved her neck to allow it. Her mouth was open to pant for
air, while what he was doing was making her hands uncooperative with the
shivers. She felt his own hands undoing her silver brooch to drop it, pulling the dragon blade, before letting it fall, blade down.

“My belt, Morganna. Unfasten my belt. Nay! D
oona’ look.” This
because she moved her head a bit as though to check, “...but by feel. Feel
the metal clasp. Undo it. Now, Morganna...now.”

He was doing the same thing with his hands, exactly as he spoke, and he
wasn’t looking anywhere. He couldn’t be. He had his lips sliding down the side
of her throat, sucking gently on the skin the entire way, until he got to the juncture of her shoulder, and then he lapped at the skin, the movement pushing
her embroidered shirt aside.

“
Unwind my
feile-breacan.
Start at the back. Pull the gathers out, feel them give, fall, release. Do it, Morganna...now.”

His hands were as hypnotic as his voice, and she could feel her own kilt
unwinding, caressing the backs of her legs before falling somewhere at her feet.