Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (18 page)

The other man shook his head. “Nay. She
knows little of that time, of all that happened.” He turned and
strode toward his mount. “But she might, if pressed by the husband,
tell him of the lady’s mother and father.” As he dug inside the
satchel attached to his saddle, he turned his head and looked back
at his fellow conspirator. “And that might bode very ill for us.
For, with enough of a nudge, the other one might begin to recollect
all. And, once she does, our fortunes—our very lives—will be at
risk.” Tucking a carrot under his steed’s nose and watching him
eat, he continued, “If only we could end this now, cleanly. But
Donnach is right: If the King suspects him, then he’s no doubt
watching that naught amiss befalls the mute.”

“Aye, but ‘tis taking longer than was
originally planned.”

The other man nodded. “Still, we must
continue to look for a means to kill her that will raise no
questions.” He turned to face his companion once more, his hands
clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. “For, we will not be safe
until
all
of that line are ended. This time
for e’er
more.
”

* * *

‘Twas not long past the nooning meal the day
after their lovers’ idyll at the burn, and directly upon being
distracted in her mending of yet another of Robert’s frayed shirts
by a strong beam of sunlight coming through the window of her
bedchamber and refracting off her fine silver needle, that Morgana
at last recalled the cross necklace.

The image appeared, seemed to float, warped
and stretched, before her eyes, then tunneled, receded, sped and
swirled, into a black void. As terror spread, like cumbrous molten
lead through her veins, her heart pounded, her body separated from
her will, from her mind, as all sensation departed.

Mama!

Mama!

Mama!

The word clanged through her brain like the
tolling of a bell, while she watched, as if from a distance or
dream, the needle drop from her trembling fingers, followed by the
shirt, as her legs brought the rest of her frame up. One of her
feet stepped forward, but found no purchase. In the next second,
the floor hurtled toward her forehead. In the far distance, a
thud
sounded before all went dark.

* * *

Robert took the steps two at a time that led
up to his bedchamber. So greatly pleased was he by the progress
thus far on the furbishing being done to the northeast wall that
he’d decided to take a small moment away from the activities, to
yield to his yearning to see his wife so soon again after the
nooning meal, to rest his hand on the warm mound of her belly,
‘neath which his heir nested snugly, and, aye, to give Morgana his
thanks once more—nay, for the first time—for her calm understanding
of the practical use of what funds they had. He felt the not-oft
used muscles in his cheeks stretch as his mouth formed a grin.
‘Twas dawning on him more each day what an excellent wife he’d
stumbled into wedding, and he knew he didn’t deserve her, knew he’d
somehow been blessed, and was thankful all the more for it.

With added vigor, and an unaccountable
lightness in his breast, he said, “Awake, wife!” as he swung the
door wide and strode forward. “ ‘Tis too pleasing a da—Morgana!” He
rushed to the nook near the window where she liked to sew and knelt
down by her prone form. Rolling her over onto her back, he saw at
once that a thin sheen of sweat dampened her flushed brow and
cheeks, yet she was so still, with not even a flutter of a lid to
let him know that she still lived, breathed, that he frantically
pressed his ear to her chest to listen for a pulse.
Praise be to
Heaven
. ‘Twas there, and steady. He yanked off the filet and
wimple she wore and tossed them aside, hoping the added coolness
would help to revive her. Afterward, in one fluid motion, he lifted
her in his arms and took her to their bed.

Settling her gently upon it, he kissed her
brow before his eye anxiously swept the room and landed on the ewer
and bowl on the washstand. In only a matter of a brief few moments,
he’d jogged the distance there and back and had the moist cloth
against her flushed skin, soothing it.

Her eyes fluttered and his lungs expanded,
allowing, at last, a full intake of breath.

“Morgana.” He touched his lips to each lid,
then pressed a much more furtive one against her mouth. “Awake, my
love.”

Her lids lifted, and in the depths of her
lovely blue eyes, he saw warm recognition, immediately followed by
confusion as her dark brows furrowed.

She pushed against his shoulders and tried
to rise, but his strength was greater, and he pressed her back down
to the pillow. She looked around, mouthing, “What befell me?” with
a flutter of her hand.

* * *

As Morgana shifted her gaze back to her
husband’s worried countenance, as she felt his hand settle o’er her
belly, as she heard him say, “You swooned again, Morgana,” she
recalled with clarity the necklace she’d seen at the burn, and,
immediately on its heels, the fear it evoked.
Had it truly been
there, or had it been some new madness of mind?
‘Twas what she
now believed her vision of
Ankou
had been all those moons
prior (and what she secretly worried was what Robert now believed
as well).
If I reveal that I’ve had another vision, will he
regret the bad bargain he made in me?

“Is it the babe again? Should I call for
Modron?” He half-rose to do just that, but she yanked at his arm,
and he settled again next to her, except this time his expression
showed perplexity.

“Nay!” she mouthed, shaking her head
vigorously. Going purely on emotion and against her conscience, she
put her hands together as if in prayer, tucked them against one
side of her cheek, and half-closed her eyes, showing him she simply
needed to rest. She soothed her hand o’er his arm. “Fret not,” she
mouthed, then curled up on her side. “Supper,” she mouthed.

Robert nodded, leaned down and brushed a
kiss on her brow, then rose, saying, “Rest you well, then, and as
you say, I shall see you at supper.” He turned and departed the
chamber.

Morgana lay there, still and tense, for
quite some time afterward, fearing that he’d send for Modron
despite her wish otherwise, but once she was sure that she would be
left alone until the evening meal, she turned her mind once more to
the necklace. Why would the sight of a simple piece of jewelry,
real or imagined, send such terror through her veins? Without
realizing she was doing so, she fisted her sleeve in her sweaty
palm.
‘Tis madness! It must be!

Closing her eyes, she took in a calming
breath. Nay, she must not panic. Before she mentioned the necklace
to her husband, before she gave him the real truth about her swoon
today—only one day after she’d frightened him with a like
experience at the burn—she’d journey back there and look for the
necklace. If she found it, then she’d know ‘twas not some trick her
mind had played, some madness that might have her in its grip.

Biting down hard on the side of her finger
until the pain o’ercame the dread expanding in her breast, she
allowed the other unsettling thought to seep through: If she found
the necklace, found it to be real, then
who did it belong
to?
Friend or foe?

* * *

Late that night, not long past the chimes of
midnight, yet well after Morgana and Robert had retired for the
night, Morgana remained awake, unable to find her rest. Her mind
would not settle, no matter how she tried. She lay there, still,
measuring her breathing, measuring her husband’s. His hand rested,
warm and protective, o’er her hip, their curved frames nearly
touching.

She closed her eyes and tried yet again to
clear her thoughts, to drift into slumber.

A noise, sounding suspiciously like a
dropped shoe, came from beyond the door that led into the small
antechamber of their own that her maid, Modron, occupied. Her ears
pricked and she lifted her head from the pillow. She had to strain,
but, aye, she could hear other shuffling about going on. If shoes
were involved, it meant a late-night assignation. Was Modron
meeting a lover? A thrill of both joy and adventure coursed through
her, for she loved her maid, and wanted her to find another mate, a
mate as perfectly right for her as Robert was for Morgana.

A wedding feast! Aye! ‘Twould be wonderful
to host a wedding for Modron here among their new clan.

After a quick glance to confirm that her
husband still slept soundly, she rolled out from under his hand and
off the bed. She’d follow. She couldn’t sleep anyway, and she
simply
must
know if the lover was that handsome clansman
who’d danced ‘round the Bealltainn fire with her maid that night.
If ‘twas, how long had they been lovers? Since the feast day? If
so, how had Morgana not been aware before?

Morgana made swift, silent work of dressing,
all the time listening to the sounds coming from Modron’s chamber.
Modron had a door that exited into the corridor, so she’d not be
coming through their own chamber, and Morgana did not want to be
too late to follow. In another moment, she was ready to go. She
waited until she heard the muffled
creak
of Modron’s door
opening, then waited again to hear her pass outside her own, then
waited yet again, to allow Modron a good ten paces lead, before
Morgana at last departed her chamber.

She merely wanted to know the identity of
Modron’s lover, she told her chiding conscience. Aye, she knew
‘twas a deceitful thing to do to her maid. If Modron had wanted to
share the tidings with her, she would have told her already. But,
Morgana simply had to know. And she simply could not bring herself
to query the maid on such privy matters. Which told Morgana, she
truly was doing a very bad thing. Still, she continued on.

Modron carried no taper. She went with the
assured steps of a woman who’d made this journey many times,
Morgana thought.

Her maid did not depart the keep through the
front entrance. Instead, she took a more indirect route, going
first through the great hall, then out the side door that led into
a short exterior covered walk, walled on one side, which connected
the keep to the chapel. She did not go into the chapel, however,
she veered to her right and traversed the narrow, cobbled expanse
between the two buildings that led directly into the courtyard. She
was headed for the postern gate! Where was she meeting this lover,
anyway? The glen? The burn? His own cot? Morgana’s imagination spun
with all the exciting possibilities. If ‘twas his cot,
unfortunately, ‘twas possible Morgana would not actually see him,
she thought, as she began the lightless stealthy hike between the
buildings.

Her breathing increased. This much shadow
and gloom made her uneasy. It always had, she knew not why.

Sometimes, when she was but a young lass at
the nunnery, she’d grow dizzy and swoon, if she was alone too long
in the dark, much like the whirling feeling she’d experienced
earlier today when she’d recalled the necklace.

She’d not taken more than three steps when
she felt a presence behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck
stood on end. Her heart began to thrum. Fear made her quicken her
step, made her swing her gaze around as she moved. All was black as
pitch. Her breathing quickened, grew harsh. Sweat beaded her upper
lip.
Light! Get into the light of the courtyard where the guard
can see you!

She began to run, caring not if Modron found
her out. She was near the edge between night and moonlight when two
arms swept around her, one o’er her mouth and nose, cutting off her
air, and the other o’er her shoulder blades. The hooded black cloak
he wore was all too familiar.

“You’re mine now,” he rasped close to her
ear. He began dragging her back into the darkness, and she fought
him. Writhing, scratching, kicking, elbowing. His hold remained
strong. He would kill her. Take her into the underworld now. Just
like the legend told.

Her clawing hands brushed the brooch
attached to her cloak. She ripped it from the wool and jabbed the
sharp end deep into his arm. He grunted and his grip loosed long
enough for her to stomp down hard on his instep and yank out of his
hold.

She ran. As hard as she could, she ran.
Toward the light. Toward safety. Tho’ she did not hear him behind
her, still she turned her head, she could not keep from doing so,
and saw only a yawning void. She kept running, kept moving. And
barreled into a hard wall of sinew and bone.
‘Tis him!
Arms
enfolded her, and from somewhere far off, a familiar voice soothed,
“ ‘Tis all right, Morgana, ’tis only me,” but still she struggled,
panting, frantic to be set free.

Again, the voice came to her. “ ‘Tis Robert,
Morgana! What is amiss?”

All she could do was point, point in the
direction from which she’d come, and mouth, “
Ankou!
”

“
Ankou!”
her husband repeated. Then,
in one movement, he looked down that gloomy, dark expanse, released
her from his embrace, and took off between the buildings, the
lightless chasm soon swallowing him up.

She stumbled further into the courtyard,
into the moonlight, for the moment, all thoughts of Modron
forgotten.

* * *

The mute’s husband, looking right and left,
darted past where the apprentice hid, huddled under his cloak in
the corner and holding his breath, and on down the aisle between
the two rows of long benches in the chapel. As the husband reached
the alter, he slowed then stopped, arms akimbo, his lungs blowing
hard in the exalted silence of the church. He looked all around, to
each side, then forward and back.

After another moment, the husband jogged
back up the aisle and returned through the door leading to the
outside passageway. The apprentice sucked in several deep breaths.
He waited there for another quarter-hour, afraid to leave lest the
husband sent guards out in search of him.