Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (13 page)

He’d ne’er desired any woman to this degree,
and ‘twas beginning to bring on an uncontrollable panic. And not
only that, but there was, expanding inside him, some other emotion.
Foreign in scope and foreign in experience. Even when she was
nowhere in sight, his thoughts were on her. And not just thoughts
of fucking her, which he could almost understand. Nay, they were
other thoughts, other images that at first were nebulous, but with
each passing day, were becoming so strong, that one in particular
had burned into his consciousness and would not let him go: Her,
round with his child and holding another.

He’d ne’er,
e’er
cared for the young
ones. Had only e’er thought of them in terms of his responsibility
to his clan and his family. But there was something about Morgana
that made him think of babes in a different light. Made him want to
be a
father
for Christ’s sake! Made him want to be the
father of
her
bairns—
their
bairns. Together.

On the cusp of that last realization, he
shot his load. High and straight, deep and purposefully, pushing
the seed against the mouth of her trembling womb.

And afterward, they both came again. First
her, then him when he felt the strong muscles of her canal tugging
and sucking hard on him. “God, Morgana, I lo—
argh!
—what are
you doing to me?”

Later, as he held her dozing form close
against his side, softly rubbing his lips against the silken
strands of moonlit hair at her temple, he recalled what he’d been
envisioning just before he’d climaxed, what he’d nearly said—what
he
had
said—and his lungs stopped working. The walls of the
bedchamber suddenly seemed to close in on him.

But then, in the next second, he realized
that he had no doubt been speaking of the way she was fucking him,
and his world righted a bit. He was at last able to take air into
his lungs once more.

* * *

Atop the gorse-covered mound about a mile
from the fortress, the two
Bealltainn
fires were lit on
either side of the path, one on a carn and the other in the ground.
The rowan-wood arch decked with bright yellow flowers was placed
o’er the pathway leading to the fires so that couples might pass
through two-by-two.

Robert had said little since Morgana had
awakened after his spontaneous dash with her to their bedchamber
earlier that day. His silent reserve, a thing she had grown
accustomed to these past sennights, worried her now, for he’d been
more solemn than usual as well. But then he took hold of her hand
to walk the last distance up to the
Bealltainn
fires and her
anxious thoughts settled a bit.

In the dark purple and deep blues of
near-night, she heard the rumbling, chattering sound of far-off
joyful voices behind and in front of her. And over to her right,
she saw the darkening shadows of clan herdsmen with their cattle
preparing for the rite of running the animals between the two fires
to cleanse and bless them against illness and injury for the next
twelvemonth.

A cool breeze buffeted her gown, causing the
skirts to cling to her legs. She halted, shivering a little as she
tugged at the material. Her husband must have noticed, for in the
next second, he hauled her up against his side and lightly rubbed
his palm up and down her arm.

She looked up at him, hoping to see that
shadow of a smile he sometimes bestowed upon her, but she found
only the same shuttered look she’d been receiving from him for
hours now.

She didn’t hold his gaze for long, however,
for he looked away almost immediately, turning his attention back
to the fires that crackled and spat a bit further ahead from where
they stood. They resumed walking then, but after only a few paces
he dropped his arm from around her. Her heart did a little dip in
her chest at the loss, but soared once more when he twined his
fingers through hers again.

When they were close to the fires, Robert
waved to one of his clansmen and dropped her hand. “I need to speak
to Dugan. Go stand with Modron,” he said, and walked away. He’d not
even looked at her while he’d spoken to her.
What is he
thinking?
If only he would tell her what he was displeased
about—
with her?
—she might be able to lessen his
displeasure.

She did, however, go stand with Modron.

The older woman turned a surprised eye upon
her, but smiled, saying, “I thought not to see you again ‘til well
past morn after the way your lusty husband behaved this afternoon.
I thought he’d not let you out of the chamber again, even for the
fire rites!” and handed her a flagon of ale.

Morgana blushed, but returned the smile, and
accepted the proffered spirits. She shrugged, took a long swallow,
and looked toward the dancers that waved flame-tipped torches as
they moved around the smoking, crackling blaze.

After a few more minutes, she and Modron
strolled closer to them, and clear of the path that the herdsmen
and cattle would take in just a while.

They were not in their new position long
before an older, unwed clansman took Modron by both her hands and
hurried her into the throng of revelers.

Morgana chuckled silently into the palm of
her hand and shook her head when Modron looked back at her with a
pleading look in her eye.

Just then, the muffled male shouts, the
frenzied rush of hoofed feet and the
swish!
of rowan
branches against rough-trod path and fleeced hide came from behind
her and she turned toward the sound. The herding had begun.

All about her was madness and mayhem. At
first, Morgana was amused by the sights and sounds around her, but
then an unaccountable dread began to grow inside her. Images,
colors, blurred and her mind spun,
she
spun, looking in all
directions for her husband.
Where is he?
Her skin went
clammy, causing her chemise to cling to her breasts and tummy. A
gust of wind blew across her, making her shiver, and sent sparks
and ash into the air.

And then she saw him—nay, not Robert—but
Him.
Ankou
. Standing on the other side of the
Bealltainn
fires, the hood of his long, black cloak pulled
forward so that only an ebon void could be seen where a visage
should be.

The tankard slid from her nerveless hand.
She doubled over, her arms about her middle, unable to breathe.
“Say naught. Else you shall be next.”
The disembodied,
rasping voice floated up from somewhere deep in her memory, and
again, the fleeting image of
Ankou
carrying the limp form of
a dead woman in his arms taunted her understanding.

“Morgana! What ails you, child?” ‘Twas
Modron. “Laird MacVie! Make haste, your wife!” the older woman
called out.

In a flash, Morgana was enveloped and lifted
into a strong pair of arms. He held tight to her as he took the
path back to the keep in great strides. “We’ll be back home soon.
Do you need a physic?” His voice sounded strange, a bit strained,
as if fright had hold of him.

Morgana lifted her head and shook it. She
was feeling much better now. Calm, in fact, since her husband was
holding her. She placed a soothing kiss on Robert’s tensed jaw.

She felt his shoulders relax beneath her
hands. “When I get you settled, you are going to tell me what
happened.”

Morgana smiled at his choice of words but
nodded.

* * *

The man in the cloak looked in all
directions, ensuring he wasn't seen by any others, before he
slipped silently back into the rising mist and trudged down the
opposite side of the mound toward his waiting stallion.

* * *

It took a while, but between Morgana’s large
hand gestures, her mouthing of words, and her miming of incidents,
Robert finally felt he kenned the whole of what had happened to her
up on the fire mound.

On the morrow, he’d obtain ink, parchment,
and quill, as she’d assured him she knew how to read and write. And
then, he’d told her, he wanted her entire life’s story writ out.
For, ‘twas clear to him now, that there was much in her past which
he needed to know if he was e’er to understand what was causing her
sometimes strange behavior and fright.

* * *

“Did she see you?” the first man asked.

“Aye,” the other answered, then took a long
pull on his tankard of ale.

“Think you that she remembers then?”

The other man shrugged and shook his head. “
‘Tis hard to know, but by her reaction, I’d say she recalls at
least a bit of it.”

“If it comes to it, we shall kill her. If
Morgunn hasn't come back from the dead and aided his wife in her
escape from me, as Donnach and I suspicioned, this daughter is
still a threat, as is Gwynlyan. I kept Gwynlyan too long as it is,
I confess. I should have killed her years ago once her usefulness
in my bed was at an end.”

The other man nodded. “I’ve kept a close
vigil of the comings and goings, and have seen no one that matches
the description you gave of the mother. Where e’er she is, she is
not on this holding.”

“Where else would she go?” The first man
rubbed the pad of his thumb o’er the round ruby set in the silver
ring on his middle finger. “Nay, do not relax your guard, she will
come. I am sure of it.”

* * *

“You sang in your sleep again this night
past. You’ve not done so since we wed, mayhap since that first
night at the hunter’s cot.”

Morgana’s hand froze halfway to her mouth.
She looked at her husband, wide-eyed, and slowly placed the crust
of bread back on the trencher, swallowing convulsively. She’d sung?
Had she sung the
Pater Noster
? Again? She opened her mouth
and tried to speak the question; tried to at least mouth it, but
the words wouldn’t form.

Robert reached over and placed his hand o’er
hers. “You truly cannot make a sound now?”

She shook her head.

“ ‘Twas again the
Pater Noster
you
sang. And ‘twas lovely, Morgana. I’ve ne’er before heard a voice as
melodious as yours.”

Morgana blushed. He’d not said anything as
sweet before. His usual manner of speaking to her was blunt or
involved the more vulgar love words.

“Why the
Pater Noster
?”

Morgana’s brows slammed together in
confusion. She shrugged and shook her head.

“Scribe your thoughts to me and I’ll read
them after dinner this afternoon.” Robert cringed inside. What was
happening to him? He actually
wanted
to know a lady’s
thoughts? Nay, had actually
demanded
as much? He leapt to
his feet. “I’ve a new tower wall being constructed that I need to
o’ersee.” He turned and stormed toward the entrance of the great
hall.
Christ’s Bones!
What mad sickness had taken hold of
him? And he’d still not worked out in his mind why he’d been
impelled two nights past to impart so much of his own thoughts to
her
.

He truly did not recognize himself any
longer. Mayhap, he’d caught a fever. He lifted his hand to his
forehead. Aye, a fever. A fever which had caused him to lose his
mind.

But an afternoon with his soldiers, doing
man’s work, might be the remedy. He hoped.

Morgana could only stare at her husband’s
receding back. What e’er had come o’er the man? He’d acted as if
stinging bees had gotten inside his braies, he’d leapt up and
darted away so quickly.

With a shake of her head, she resumed
breaking her fast. Afterward, she’d do as Robert wanted and scribe
as much as she knew of her life’s story. Her stomach did a little
flip. Including her feelings regarding the
Pater Noster
.

* * *

Morgana watched with envy her maid, Modron,
organize the weavers for their day’s labors. ‘Twas the task she
herself was bound to do as castelaine of the keep, and tho’ she
held great gratitude to Robert for securing such a warm, generous,
and competent companion for her to aid her in these tasks, it also
brought to bear, each time she beheld it, and with e’er more
clarity, the absurd and ill-conceived desire she’d borne all those
sennights at court that she could e’er be a true help-meet, a true
wife, to any man of rank and land.
Why had the King believed it
possible?
Why had
I
?
‘Twould have been better had
she stayed at the nunnery, where her duties were simple, and guided
by others, and there was little need for the spoken word.

“What ails you, m’lady?” Modron said,
jolting Morgana from her brood. “You’ve lost all countenance!
Here,”—she hurried her over to a bench and sat down beside
her—“settle here for a moment. Eithne, bring our lady a cup of
water from the cask! Quickly!”

Morgana bolstered her courage, forcing the
uncertainty back from where it had sprung, took a long, soothing
drink of the cool water, then, after handing the ladle back to
Eithne, turned to Modron with a gentle smile and placed her hand in
hers. “I am well now,” she mouthed.

Modron patted their joined hands with her
other, then started to rise, but Morgana waylaid her, tugging her
back to settle beside her once more. As the weavers were well-set
upon their duties, and well-away from the corner nook in which the
two of them rested, Morgana, feeling again the close bond they’d
formed since her wedding, took that moment to ask the question that
had been burning within her these past moons, that she had yet to
draw the courage to query, lest she be perceived as too prying.
Sliding her hand from Modron’s, she mouthed as she folded her arms
and rocked them as if rocking a babe, “What became of your
bairns?”

A jubilant bubble of relief and joy rose in
her chest when Modron did not turn from her, but instead studied
Morgana’s face with eyes full of wonder and affection, then said,
“Tho’ I bore several, I only went to childbed with one. My first—a
daughter. Lovely, she was. She sang like an angel on high, all noon
and night, and the sound of her laughter was as high and bright as
a harmony of faery bells.” Modron sighed, blinked several times, as
if sweeping away tears, and looked away, saying, “But. After my
husband’s death, she went to live with others who were better able
to care, protect, feed, and clothe her.” After taking in a deep
breath, which straightened her spine, and brought her shoulders
back, she said with finality, “And, alas, I’ve learned she has no
memory of me, and it has been decided that, for now at least, I
must keep it such. Let us go to the larder now to take our stock of
the stores there, shall we?” And with that, she rose with her hands
clasped loosely in front of her, and waited with patience for
Morgana to rise as well and begin the trek to the larder, so that
she might follow behind.