Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (37 page)

Until she saw Vika hurrying toward him. Then
Morgana’s tears dried. Then the hand on the pane curled into a
fist. Then the pining in her heart turned to jealousy and ire as
she watched Robert stop, turn toward her cousin, furrow his brow at
her, then lift one side of his mouth in a half-smile, nod, and take
the hand she held out to him. Morgana might have been able to
convince herself that ‘twas only Vika, not Robert as well, who
played and teased, until she saw Robert lift and hold Vika’s other
hand as well.

Was it to her he went this night past?

Morgana dropped her face into her hands.

I hate her!

She brought her head up, blinked the tears
away.

Nay.
To hate was a sin. Besides, ‘twould do only harm, and little
good, if ‘twas Vika he found comfort with, if ‘twas Vika he wanted,
if ‘twas Vika who would bear his babe. It seemed wrong, somehow,
for Morgana to keep them apart. For, she loved Robert with all her
being, yet if he did not, or could not return that love—and he had
yet to e’er say the words to her, tho’ she had thought, had hoped,
before, when she still carried his babe, that he might—then she
would do what she must so that Robert would find the joy and
content he deserved. After all, was not that what Ma dame Aliénor
would tell her was the most right, the most generous, the most holy
thing to do?

But weren’t the vows you
spoke a holy covenant?
Aye, they
were!
And, I want to be his
wife!

With a loud sniffle, she roughly scrubbed
the damp from her cheeks, and walked to the stand that held the
basin, poured water into it from the ewer, then, after swirling the
cloth in its cool, liquid depths for a moment, lifted it to her
heated cheeks and puffy eyes. Fighting back another bout of tears,
she squeezed her lids shut and told herself she’d go to the chapel
and pray for guidance.

* * *

“Aye?” Robert prompted Vika, and lifted her
other hand in his, giving both a squeeze. “Have you a memory of
what preceded your fall, at last?”

With relief at the less
perilous subject he’d offered up to her, she pulled from his grasp,
turned and began to walk in the direction he’d been going before
she’d come upon him several moments earlier. As he fell in line
beside her, she said, “Aye. Tho’, ‘tis not a memory, ‘tis more of a
feeling. A feeling that mayhap someone was on the landing, that
they caused me to fall. E-e-except, who would do such?” She shook
her head. “Nay, each time I feel that rising dread again when I
think of those moments, and feel that
feeling
that someone might have been
there, I always come back to the fact that I cannot fathom
who
it might have
been.”

“ ‘Twas—” Robert looked as if he wanted to
tell her something, but the glimmer, the fleet moment passed, as he
continued, “—Aye, well, ‘tis no doubt only part of the recalled
panic at the moment of your tumble that brings forth the
other.”

* * *

‘Twas nearing mid-morn by the time Morgana
at last saw Wife Deirdre’s daughter nod her head in slumber. Her
hands worked another stitch before they, too, settled to rest in
the older woman’s lap. Still, Morgana remained motionless, holding
her breath, until at last she heard the first snore that signified
a deeper sleep. Then, as quietly as she was able, she slipped from
the bed, took one of her work gowns from its peg, and slipped it on
o’er her head, not bothering to tie its side lacing until after
she’d opened the door a crack, peeked out, and asked with broad
hand movements her husband’s cousin to fetch a chest from the next
room and bring it in to her. While he was occupied with that task,
she slipped from the chamber and hurried down the stairs, through
the door, across the open covered walk that connected the kitchens
and larder to the main keep, and toward the largest of the several
storage chambers, with the intent to find Modron, whom she’d not as
yet had more than a few words with since the night Morgana’s babe
had flushed from her womb.

On this day, Morgana knew, Modron would be
busy with the larderers, o’erseeing and answering queries regarding
the household’s plans and needs, as Morgana herself should be doing
as well, tho’ she had no heart for the duty. But she would attempt
it this day, with Modron’s help, and mayhap, as they worked
together, Morgana could get some few advices from her, some few
words that would make the ache in her heart lessen by some small
degree.

When she stepped into the larder through its
outside entry, she stumbled to a halt upon finding Vika in full
command of the proceedings, with no Modron in sight, and with all
of Robert’s larderers fetching and carrying and scurrying about in
obvious awe and deference to Vika’s regal dictates. Morgana had
ne’er yet found her ease with such duties and ‘twas clear that her
cousin did such with little effort and with much relish. In fact,
to Morgana’s eye, the larderers looked much-relieved to have a lady
of birth whom they could easily comprehend at their helm. Morgana
took a step back, ready to exit the chamber to continue her search
for Modron, when her maid appeared through the entry that led from
the kitchens, beaming a smile in Vika’s direction and holding out
to her the book containing the lists and recipes of Robert’s
favorite foods and flavors that Morgana had meticulously begun
keeping upon her arrival here as his new wife.

For a long, painful moment, Morgana remained
in the shadowed doorway watching as Vika took hold of Morgana’s
book and began turning pages and giving further instruction to the
women, before Morgana whirled and blindly fled.

* * *

“Why are you not abed, resting?” came a
booming, all-too familiar male voice from behind her a few minutes
later.

Morgana started, dropping
the length of splintered wood and whirling around. She’d needed a
bit of solace, a quiet moment to soothe her sore pride, her aching
heart, and her feet had unwittingly led her here. To the place,
less than a sennight past, that had vitalized her, had given her
purpose, had been yet another way to show her love and commitment
to Robert, to their marriage. Robert's silver-gray eyes were
darkened to the hue of thunderclouds. Before….
Before
, she would have given her
answer with ease, soothing his ire with a soft smile, a gentle
touch, using the gestures and mouth movements the two of them had
established together o’er the past moons, but now, still suffering
from the blow she’d taken earlier in the larder, and again, only
moments past, when she’d come upon the destruction that was the
remains of the old keep, she could not bring forth the effort it
required, the courage it took.

He had known of her desire to use the old
keep. Had he destroyed it in a fit of rage at her upon her loss of
his son? Seeing the anger, the cold regard, he displayed so freely
toward her now, she could do naught else but believe ‘twas so.

When she made no move to reply, he took hold
of her hand, not in the way of a lover, but in the way of a father
leading a self-willed bairn, and pulled her back toward the
entrance to the keep, saying, “My cousin told me you’d slipped past
his and the nurse’s care of you. You need your rest. Wife Deirdre
has said that you are to stay abed for at least a fortnight.”

A fortnight!
Even tho’ she had no knowledge of the usual and
expected duration of recovery for a mother after the loss of her
unborn babe, she found that length to be extreme. Why, she felt
quite well enough to walk, to continue, if not all, then most of
her duties as castelaine of this keep. If only she were able to
have more time with her maid, Modron. Then she would have such
questions answered from the woman who’d not only suffered the same
loss herself, but aided her these past moons—and had become a dear
and trusted friend in that time as well. And mayhap she’d know what
Morgana might do to bring the warm regard back into Robert’s gaze
when he looked upon her. But, she was not able to do so, for Modron
(and, from what she had spied earlier, Vika, too, it seemed) was
being kept busy now with the duties that Morgana should be about
herself.

And now, she wondered again if Robert meant
to punish her for her weakness, for her use of the tincture that
may have killed their babe. And, as well, if ‘twas to do with
Robert’s not wanting her about. Not only so that he might more
easily tryst with her cousin, but also, because, Morgana no doubt
reminded him, when e’er he saw her, of his bad fortune in being
forced to wed a woman incapable of speech, incapable of governing a
household without the aid of her maid, and incapable—or so she
daily feared—of keeping a babe in her womb to childbed. And, for
certain, there was the other thing—the swoons and visions—which
must plague him with thoughts that he’d wed a madwoman.

When compared, as he must be doing, with her
cousin’s hale constitution, her loveliness, and the MacVie babe she
carried, ‘twas no surprise that Morgana would be found lacking in
his eye.

Which only underscored, yet again, the
urgency she felt to do the right, the holy, thing; to step aside;
to release Robert from his ill-fated vow. For, hadn’t Guy de Burgh
told her once, when she’d asked him how he was able to win so often
at joust, that a good fighter knew when to retreat, and when to
advance? ‘Twas more and more evident to Morgana that this just
might be a time for retreat.

* * *

That eve, Morgana, Vika and Robert were
having a quiet supper together when all at once Vika took in a
sharp breath and her hand flew to her belly.

“What is it—is it the babe?” Robert asked,
with a thread of gentleness overlaying the worry in his voice,
Morgana could not help but notice.

The knife of desolation she’d had thrust in
her heart at the tender scene, performed a vicious twist when
Robert’s hand went toward Vika’s belly, stopped short of touching
it as his eyes, filled with guilt, flicked to Morgana’s face,
before the hand was caught up by Vika and placed there herself.
Robert did not pull it back, however. Instead, he smiled—chuckled
low (a rare and beautiful thing that Morgana infinitely craved
earning from him as well)—and said, “Aye, he’s a strong, bold one,
is he. A fine MacVie.”

Vika blushed—a thing that was even more rare
to see than Robert’s smile—and a shadow of guilt traveled o’er her
countenance as well, which only Morgana saw, as Robert’s gaze was
still fixed on his growing son. Was it some belated remorse at
giving herself to Morgana’s husband this night past? But then, as
quickly as the look arrived, it flew away again, replaced once more
by sparkling eyes and a teasing grin. “Aye. Strong and bold he is
for certain, like his sire.”

Morgana had gone to the
chapel after the nooning meal and prayed for an hour for some
answers as to what to do next. Should she continue to hope that she
and Robert would overcome this crisis in their lives, would
eventually find their way back to that loving bond they’d shared
prior to Vika’s arrival, prior to losing their babe, or, should she
begin making arrangements to quit this place for good, quit her
marriage to Robert, thus giving him and Vika the chance to build
their own family through the legitimate connection of marriage? The
answer had not come. But, now, seeing the tender exchange between
her husband and her cousin, the jubilation he felt for his unborn
babe, she was sure ‘twas the sign she’d asked for, and had now
received. ‘Twas clear—as clear as a crystalline drop of melting
snow off a pine needle at
Pasche
—that the bond Vika and Robert
shared, their bairn, as well as the attraction that burned between
them, must not be forced to remain secret, but be celebrated,
rejoiced in, and allowed to flourish.

She would write to King William, explain all
to him, and ask that he do what e’er he must to arrange things with
the Bishop for an annulment of her marriage to Robert. If her
muteness and strange fits of swooning were not enough to gain that
end, then she’d admit to anything—even telling of Robert’s and
Vika’s amorous affair, and the babe that was the result—if ‘twould
allow the breaking of the legal bond between them.

And
then
…. She straightened in her chair. And
then, she would return to the nunnery. Aye, to the nunnery she
would go. ‘Twas where she belonged. The place where she could mend
her broken heart, her tattered hopes. They loved her there—or, at
least, loved her cooking—and if these fits of hers continued, the
nuns would not abandon her. They would care for her, keep her safe.
Aye, ‘twas what she’d do.

With that settled in her mind, she broke off
a portion of mutton and placed it on her tongue. The quivering in
her belly rose up to settle in her jaw as she attempted to chew
and, feeling the sting in her eyes, the urgent pressure in her
throat to let out a wail, she choked down the half-chewed mass,
rose to her feet and quietly excused herself with a brush of her
hand to her forehead, indicating a sick head before she scurried
toward the exit. Robert’s brows had merely drawn together—in
concern, or ire, she knew not which—before he’d given her a nod,
then tucked back into his meal, with nary a word.

* * *

“My wife is still not strong enough to be
told of all we’ve learned these past days,” Robert told Gwynlyan
the next day. “Only last eve, she fled from the table not a
quarter-hour into our meal. She gestured something about a sick
head, but I could see that she was about to begin another fit of
tears o’er our lost son.” He swung away from her, scrubbed his
hands o’er his tired face and eyes, then looked, unseeing, out the
window of the solar, where they’d agreed to meet once they were
certain that Morgana was back in bed, resting. “I am of no use to
her—to any woman—when she is in such a state. She turns from me,
only shakes her head when I speak.”