Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (18 page)

There was another heave on the wood
; Sally got louder. Zander called Morgan’s
name again. He cursed again. Another heave came against the door.

“
I said begone!”

Morgan didn’t know who he was using that orator voice on. He was
definitely using it, since she could hear every word. Then, he was hitting the door again.

“Morgan, as God is my witness, I’ll have every hair on your head. Every,
damned hair!”

Sally screamed. The door bolt splintered,
and Morgan actually watched it break apart
with what looked like slow motion. There was no one with him, and no one in the
hall, either. Then she met Zander’s incredulous look as he took in the
scene, followed by the most genuine amusement she’d ever heard.

His bow was mocking, his order for her to carry on, just as much so, and
his laughter as he put the door back in place was worse. All in all, it had to be the
most embarrassing morning of her life.

~ ~ ~

The crowds were as thick as before, although this time Morgan bowed to
all, starting with the galleries of nobles, and ending with the serfs, Zander at her side. The garments he’d had fashioned for her were making her glow
in the afternoon sun, and whenever she lifted an arm, shifted stance, or swiveled,
silver glinted in pinpricks of light. She caught them every so often.

She was doing her best to ignore Sally Bess’
s smug face and all the other
lasses who were twittering every time she looked their way. She also ignored Zander’s betrothed, sitting on the stand beside her father, and with the newly
crowned King of Scotland, Robert the Bruce, on her other side. He wasn’t as prepossessing as she’d envisioned, but he was regal. That much couldn’t be
mistaken.

And she was having trouble with Zander’s eyes on her every move, and those midnight
-blue eyes were alight with more glow than the silver could
possibly have.

It made her hand shake for a moment before she stopped it.

“Step forward, Squire Morgan of the FitzHugh clan. Greet your
sovereign.”

Morgan bowed low, Zander at her side.

“I hear there is no one as good as you are, Squire Morgan. I look
forward to seeing this, in fact. It is a good thing in the Scotland I now rule,
weapons are again allowed. Isna’ that right, my lords?”

The king turned to those about him for assent.

“You have to watch closely then, Sire,” Zander informed him
from Morgan’s side, “for Morgan has the gift of lightning to his hands, and the
speed of wind to his blades. This will be the exhibition.”

They had discussed it the prior evening, and she listened to him describe
what she was going to show. Her lips twisted and she glanced away the moment
her eyes touched Plato’s, sitting behind Zander’s betrothed. She colored.

It was a good thing she and Zander had discussed what series she would
follow since she was still not talking to him since the bath. She may never talk to
him again, she decided.

The king nodded, and Morgan raised from her bow.

“
You may begin, Morgan. Doona’ look at me like that. You have
lightened my heart from a cartload of heaviness. This may well be the best day of my life.”

Zander
was whispering it to her, but that only made it worse. The
embarrassment, at least, she could handle.

Morgan’s weaponry were all in a semi-circle in the midst of all four
targets, and she stopped for a moment, to pick her starting point. The crowd
ceased to exist, the king ceased to be of import, and all she could see was
Zander’s perfect, midnight-blue eyes. She picked up the claymore and began.

She had arranged four of every weapon, one for each target, and she went
in a seemingly faultless motion through each, pivoting back and forth, first to the
first target, pick up a weapon, then the third target. Then, the second, finally the
fourth. If she placed the claymore in the center, the next weapon went right below it. The arrows went to the right, the hand-axes to the left, the
skean dhu
to the top, and finally, three dirks to each target in the seemingly nonexistent space
between the already-planted weapons. The entire exhibition took less time than
one previous contest had, and when she placed the last dirk, she went to her
knees with her arms wide.

The roar of the crowd was what reached her first, and then Zander was at
her side, waiting for her to rise and join him. She only met his eyes once, and the
glow was warmer, more personal, more frightening. He said something, but she
didn’t hear it. The crowd’s roar made it impossible. Then, he was escorting her
back to where the king sat beside the earl, and the lovely Gwynneth.

Morgan touched glances with the girl, and saw the same hero-worship
gaze every other lass was looking at her with. It was unnerving. There was
something else in the girl’s gaze, too. It wasn’t easy to decipher what it was, and
then she knew. She’d seen it often enough in the hag’s eyes. Gwynneth was
unhappy, desperately so.
Unhappy?
Morgan wondered.

She didn’t have time to puzzle it, for Plato’s gaze on her was completely
unnerving. Morgan told herself she didn’t care. Plato was an annoying,
inquisitive, bothersome man. She didn’t care what he thought of her, or what he thought he was doing.

“
Your betrothed seems a bit...quieter, Zander,” she told his shoulders as
he led them back to his chamber, leaving clansmen and her followers behind. No
one wanted to miss the feasting and revelry. No one except the Squire Morgan.

“I have moved the wedding up
,” Zander swung his head to inform her. “I
have said I will na’ wait. I will take her to wife in three days. She is properly
quieted by it, I would say.”

“
You moved the wedding up?”

“Aye.
’Twas no effort, with the earl. He is still trying to sweeten me
enough to part with your servitude to him.”

“I will na’ serve him.”

“
I know that. You know that. He does na’. He thinks silver buys
everything. He has been around the Sassenach too much. ’Tis the way they
think.”

“
But...three days, Zander? Only three?”

“Three days, Morgan.
’Tis all the sooner he would move it.”

“
You wanted it sooner? Why?”

“You canna’ guess?”

He opened the door and waited for her to enter. Morgan felt rooted to
the spot with pulse-pounding ache. FitzHugh would be lost to her in three days.
She couldn’t stay with him once the wedding was over. She didn’t dare. She
was afraid of the heart-wrenching loss. She knew it was going to be there, too.
It already was.

“Come along, Morgan. I go to accept your
purse. They’ve
entertainment arranged for the eve. Some sort of English nonsense called
theater. I’ve never seen theater. You wish to attend this time? I will have you
protected. None of your followers will be allowed near. You have my word.”

“
Nay,” she whispered. She was surprised her voice actually made sound.

She was afraid to stay another moment with him, as it was. She’d be on her knees begging him to take her as his woman...and make her his whore. Her
body and heart wanted to force him to take her and make it reality. Her pride,
and the years of hatred, training, and sacrifice, were demanding otherwise.
She was shaking. Zander may have noticed, since he was looking at her so
closely. She didn’t dare meet his gaze.

She walked past him. The door closed. He didn’t follow her.

The tub was gone. Morgan stood in the center of the room, and realized how
deathly quiet everything already was.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“
Morgan, you must do it. There is no one else. The production will fail, if you doona’ assist them.”

“Get out of the chamber, Plato.” Morgan spoke the words more to the
top of Zander’s footstool than at the FitzHugh who was disturbing her from the
door. The smooth wood of Zander’s furniture had hid her sorrow well enough,
once she put a blanket on it. Morgan put her nose back into the cloth, more to
dry the offending tears from her face than anything else. She hoped the
interloper at the door wouldn’t notice.

“But
Morgan, we need you. Zander needs you, too.”

“Zander does na’ need me. He has yon beauteous wench, Gwynneth, at
his side. I am not needed. I will be in the way. I am useless at anything save
killing great, wooden targets. Play is no time for weaponry. Now, get from this
chamber!”

Her voice neither sounded as authoritative nor as strong as her words. It
sounded wounded and lost, exactly as she had been since Zander left her.

He chuckled. “They need another for their theater
.”

“Then
get another!” Oh, why didn’t he just leave? Morgan put her hands
against her eye sockets and wished she were outside and near a fresh burn, to
soothe the tissue she’d sobbed into a wretchedly hot, swollen state.

“F
rom where?”

“Take one of my followers! They’re everywhere. Look about you. Now
go!”

“There’s na’ another in sight, Morgan, save Eagan, here. Isna’ that true,
Eagan?”

The large clansman Zander had left at the doorstep, answered on cue. Morgan ignored him.

“Although Eagan is probably wishing he could attend the fest, too.”

“
Does na’ anything get into your thick skull, Plato FitzHugh? I doona’
wish to be part of this play! I doona’ wish to be anywhere! I doona’ wish to be
entertainment, for anyone, any longer!”

Her shout died away.

“
What is it you do wish?” he asked.

Her heart surged, and Morgan gulped. “To be...free,” she whispered. “To be outside. To be back in my old life. To finish what I set out to do, and cease the doing and the living. That is what I wish.”

Plato sighed. “And sobbing in this room is going to get you all of that?”
he asked, in a quiet voice.

Morgan lifted her head, and watched the torches flare and spit. She
wasn’t sobbing. Only a FitzHugh would accuse a KilCreggar of a weakness like
that. Her back stiffened.

“This
play needs another. The lad they had is taken ill. The play canna’
go on without this part played.”

“I canna’ play a part,” Morgan told the fire.

“Only you would say that as if it were true. You have played a part all
your life, Squire Morgan. Tell me I’m wrong. Go ahead. Tell me. Make me
believe it.”

“Go away.”

“He’s wedding her in two days, Morgan! Two days! You know you can
stop it, and you will na’?”

“Three,” she replied.

“Di
d he forget to tell you today was one of them? My brother, Zander. Always the light-hearted, playful one. Always the tease.”

Fresh tears threatened her eyes at that, and she held the blanket to them.
Behind her, Plato blew the disgust.

Then, more
brightly he said,
“I have someone who wishes to speak with you, Morgan. ’Tis the Lady
Gwynneth. Gwynneth? The squire, Morgan. Perhaps you two can comfort each
other with your tears.”

“I d
oona’ cry!”

Morgan swiveled and glared, defying any to state otherwise. He had the
Lady Gwynneth with him, although she had a widow’s veiling on her face and a
shudder to her frame before she lifted her covering.

Morgan’s heart sank. The girl’s sadness was apparent.

“
Why do you weep?” Morgan asked softly.

The girl tried to smile. Morgan couldn’t believe how much she had changed in the fortnight since they’d met.

“They need another for the part, and there is nae lad left who will suit. I
beg it of you,” she whispered.

Morgan frowned. “This is the cause of your sadness?” she asked, finally.

The girl looked up at Plato, then back at Morgan. Then, she nodded,
although her lower lip trembled.

“If I play this part, you will cease weeping?” Morgan asked.

“I…
I will do my best.”

The Lady Gwynneth’s lower lip trembled worse, and huge tears spilled
from her eyes. Morgan’s heart went out to her. She knew exactly what
Gwynneth felt like, although it was stupid to cry over something as slight as a canceled performance.

She sighed. “I canna’ be so unchivalrous. Show me this part you need
played.”

“Come then.”

What Plato said must be true, for the moment Morgan agreed, the girl
brightened, and held out her hand. Morgan looked at it. “I will follow you,” she said simply. She couldn’t touch Zander’s betrothed in the guise of a lad and still
function. It was impossible.

They were approaching the
Great Hall, which had been set aside for this
production, when Plato pulled Morgan aside, by gripping to her upper arm. He motioned the Lady Gwynneth into an antechamber.

“I need to warn you,” he said.

“Of what?” she replied, feeling every hair whisper along her neck.

“This part is for that of a woman.”

Shock hit her first, and then she had a fist aimed at his jaw. He caught it
with one hand and squeezed. Morgan took the pain without wincing. Zander
had delivered far worse and with far more lasting effect. Plato held her fist and
tightened until her knuckles cracked.

“
You canna’ win this. A real man has na’ the light easy motion of a blade, dearest Morgan,” he whispered. “Nor is he so easily played with. I was
hopeful you and my brother would find this out for yourselves, without my help.
But you leave me no choice.”

“I d
oona’ ken your meaning,” she answered.

“Oh yes, you do. Now, hurry along. Lady Gwynneth awaits to help you
costume yourself. I will await your arrival in the Hall.”

“I will na’ do it. I refuse.”

“You refuse and I will force you.”

“You canna’ force me. I have the dragon blade.” Morgan slipped it from
her kilt.

Plato’s eyebrows rose.
“’Tis fitting, I suppose. The blade goes to the strongest of the FitzHughs. It is won. I’m not surprised he gave it to you
today.”

“
He gave it to me a-fore the exhibition.”

His grip eased.
“Why?” he asked.

“To use on any FitzHugh who accosts me. Any FitzHugh.”

“The man is mad. Gwynneth?” He dropped Morgan’s hand.

The petite Lady Gwynneth stepped back outside.
“’Tis almost time,
Morgan. Hurry. I still have to paint your face!”

“
Paint my face? As what, a...harlot?” Her voice was bitter on the word.

“
Nay. ’Tis but a bit of greasepaint. All actors wear it, especially those portraying a woman. Takes the ugliness from their faces and creates illusion.
You understand illusion?”

“
Morgan understands that best of all,” Plato answered for her.

“You are a lady welcoming her brave lads back from the sea. You have
but three lines. ‘Well and good, lads.’ ‘Thanks be to God’, and ‘’tis done.’ You
can remember these?”

“I have to speak? I canna’ speak women’s words, nor in a woman’s voice,” Morgan protested.

“But Plato says you are the only one who can!”

Gwynneth picked up Morgan’s hands and held them in hers. Fresh tears appeared in her eyes and then on her cheeks at she looked up at Morgan.
Morgan glared her complete hatred at Plato. He responded with a grin.

“
Who can resist such an entreaty? Any other lad would be on his knees,
begging for a favor, but not you, eh, Morgan?”

“I have no teats. What am I to use for them?” She spat
the words.

Gwynneth looked at Plato for an explanation and when he gave it, her lips
twitched a bit, but her tears stopped. Up close, she was actually more beautiful
than Morgan remembered.

“They have sacks for such a problem. I will fetch them while you change.
Get in there now. Get the dress on. Plato will help. We have little time as it is! I’ll
be right back to paint you.”

“
Morgan?” Plato was gesturing into the chamber of her transformation. Morgan found her feet wouldn’t move. “You can always use your own teats,” he
finished.

~ ~ ~

She had her back to the crowd when the third act opened.

They had torches lit all about the
Hall, sending smoke-filled light about, but the stage had a stranger lighting system yet. Someone had filled a big caldron
with oil, put wicks in it, and then lit them. The combination of lights swelled into
a clearer, brighter whole, and it shined on the rippled length of Morgan’s hair as she
sat, posed on what was supposed to be a balcony, but was, in fact, two logs cross-hatched into two other logs, with a stone-colored tapestry draped over them.

The dress she’d been forced to wear was of burgundy-colored velvet. It
was too short, it was too big, and it was old. It had sweat-stains where the
sleeves were laced on, and the white linen collar cascading from the low-cut,
squared neckline, had more than one stain on it. Plato had immediately decreed
that the dress was too loose, as if that was its only fault. Morgan had stood
helplessly while he took a length of black cording and crisscrossed it about her
ribcage and down to the flare of her hips, leaving the slender waist she’d always
hidden completely outlined. She only hoped her hair hid it.

The Lady Gwynneth had told her she was entrancing, whatever that was,
and proceeded to put so much greased color on her face, she itched. Morgan had
never felt so different. She had never felt the swish of skirts about her ankles, the feel of air on skin above her bodice, nor the rub of velvet against her own, unbound breasts.

The last was her own fault!

Morgan didn’t ponder the why of her actions, she only knew she was
experiencing what it felt like to be female for the one and only time in her life,
and when Gwynneth brought the foul-smelling bags that draped from a cord
behind her neck, Morgan had known she wouldn’t wear them. She had stepped
behind her screen, and tossed them into the corner with the moldy rushes, and
she had untied her own binding, replacing it on her knee, where the dragon blade and KilCreggar plaid,
even now, rested.

She hadn’t questioned them about unbinding her braid. It would work
well as a curtain, she hoped. She hadn’t counted on the ripple once it was
brushed, since Sally Bess had braided a tight, inter-twined affair just that morning. There was no mirror to see the transformation, but Morgan knew there
was one. She knew it by the look of satisfaction in Plato’s eye, and the looks of
the others when she took her place behind the curtain.

There was complete and utter silence when the curtain parted for Act Three. Morgan waited for her cue. She had never been so frightened in her life.

“
What is my daughter doing on that stage? Stop this immediately! No
woman walks the boards!”

Morgan recognized the earl’s voice. Then Plato answered.
“’Tis the
FitzHugh squire, Morgan, My Lord. Calm yourself. Your daughter sits at your side. That isna’ a woman. That is the champion, himself. I swear. See the silver
wrist bands? I dressed him myself.”

Then, there was a loud commotion and someone told Zander to sit back down, and cease blocking the view. The four lads in the play came in from the
back of the stage, and Morgan waited for her first line. When it was time, she
swiveled to face the audience, and said in the highest tone and with the most
mockery she could use, “Well and well, lads.”

There was laughter at her delivery. She could sense that much, and then Zander FitzHugh was ordered to sit back down again. This time by his brother.
Morgan narrowed her eyes to see him through the tint of black smoke rising from
their caldron.