Morgan the Rogue (36 page)

             
'Morgan…' she whispered as she left the bed and went over to her window to gaze out.  'Where are you, my love?  I fear that you are in danger…'

             
Her dream had left her anxious and she could not forget what had been so vividly in her mind as she woke.  Morgan was captured and being tortured.  She had felt his pain as they beat him, every stroke of the cruel cane seeming to thud into her own flesh.

             
The pain had left her as she woke, but her anxiety remained for she could not rid herself of the feeling that Morgan was in trouble and needing her.  She had seemed to hear him calling to her.

             
'God help him,' she prayed.  'Oh, my love.  I would come to you if I could but I do not know where you are…'

             
'Be at peace, Lady Rosamund…'

             
She was startled to hear the voice behind her.  She turned and for a moment thought she saw a figure hovering in the corner of the room.  She knew no fear for immediately she sensed that it must be Kestrel, though she could not see him clearly enough to be sure.

             
'Kestrel?' she asked in wonder.  'Are you truly here?'

             
'Believe and you may see me,' his voice said.  'But I must not stay, Morgan needs me…'

             
'Then my dream was true?' Rosamund started towards the misty figure but it had disappeared.  'Tell me…will he come back to me?' she cried but there was no answer.

             
Rosamund felt the tears trickle down her cheeks, tasting their saltiness.  Kestrel had come to comfort her, but she had not been able to hold him for her will was not strong enough.  But if she believed in what she had seen and heard he was going to Morgan.

             
Weeping desperately, Rosamund bent her head.  She had been taught to believe in one God and her belief in the magical powers of her much missed and loved healer were not strong enough to help her now, though she longed to believe.

             
'Help Morgan,' she prayed as she knelt beside the bed, though in her heart she was not sure to whom she prayed.  'I beg you, bring him safely back to me.'

*

Morgan was barely conscious as they flung him back into his cell.  He had been taken out and beaten as they tried to make him betray the secret places known only to Owain and a few of his most trusted followers.  In the end he had not been able to stand it any longer and had fallen to the ground in a daze.

             
'Take him away and revive him,' Sir Philip de Grenville muttered.  'I would not have him die too soon.  I want the pleasure of seeing him burned alive.'

             
Morgan had heard the words through a mist of pain.  Surely he must have imagined or heard wrongly?  He would be hanged not burned – burning was kept for witches or martyrs.  He would not have put even his worst enemy to the torch.

             
He lay for a long time hovering between the darkness and a pain-filled consciousness.  And then he felt someone bathing his face with cold water and he opened his eyes, looking up at the soldier who bent over him.

             
'Water…'

             
'Drink this,' the soldier said, glancing over his shoulder.  'They let me tend you because Sir Philip wants you alive.  You don't know me, Morgan Gruffudd, but I know you.  I'll help you all I can for Lady Rosamund's sake.'

             
'Thank you,' Morgan muttered through his split lips when he had swallowed a few sips of the water.  'You are kind, sir.'

             
'You saved my lady,' he said.  'And though I am forced to serve Sir Philip it is my lady I respect and revere.'

             
'You are not alone,' Morgan whispered, pushing himself to a sitting position.  His body still hurt for he was black with bruising to his flesh all over and each tiny movement was an agony.  'I believe that all who serve her would say the same.'

             
'I wish that I might serve her.'

             
'If you went to her she might take you in.'

             
'She would not trust me…'  The soldier looked at him doubtfully.  'My name is Jack Errin, my lord.  'I would have left Sir Philip's service long ago if I dared – for he is an evil man.'

             
'If you could help me to escape…'

             
'No!'  The man started back in terror.  'They would kill me…'

             
'Yes, perhaps they would,' Morgan leaned back weakly, feeling what strength he had ebb out of him.  'It was wrong of me to ask you to risk so much for me – but go to Lady Rosamund anyway when I am dead.  Tell her that I loved her and thought of her to the end. I am certain she would give you service if you asked it of her.'

             
'Forgive me.  I must go…'  the soldier muttered and left him.

             
Morgan lay down on the hard ground and closed his eyes.  It was useless to think of escape for he had not the strength to try.

             
'Is this the Morgan Gruffudd who called on the old gods to let him see into the future?  Cry shame on you – I thought you braver, my lord.'

             
Morgan opened his eyes, looking about him.

             
'Kestrel – is it really you or have I gone mad?'

             
'If you believed you would see me.  Have courage, my friend.  This is not the end but only the beginning…'

             
'Kestrel!'  Morgan hauled himself to his feet, staggering to the slit that served as a window.  'Where are you?  Don't leave me here.'

             
'I am with you but you do not see me,' Kestrel's voice answered.  'It is in you to save yourself, Morgan Gruffudd.  I shall help you to feel strong again, but the way to freedom is for you to find.  I cannot do everything for you.  To fulfil your fate you must have faith in yourself, for only in this way can a man be free.'

             
'Riddles, always riddles,' Morgan cursed.  'Damn you, Kestrel!  I could wring your scrawny neck!'

             
Kestrel's laughter seemed to echo in the little cell and for a moment Morgan saw him…hovering above the ground as he had above the ravine.  He grinned as he felt a renewal of strength, of mind and purpose if not of body.  He still ached in every limb, each movement an agony, but now he could bear it.  He could think again…think about a way of escape…

*

'You should not have come here yet,' Morwenna said as she opened her eyes and saw Rhys Llewelyn standing by her bed.  'We have not yet heard that Morgan is hung.'

             
'The English have him,' Rhys said and smiled down at her.  She looked so beautiful lying there with her hair spread upon the pillow and he had wanted her, waited for her so long.  'Sir Philip has paid me half of the reward money and I am to have the rest on the day Morgan hangs.'

             
'Fool!' Morwenna scorned.  'He will cheat you.  You should have insisted on half first and the rest when Morgan was taken.'

             
Rhys sat on the bed beside her, his eyes suddenly hard.  'Do not speak to me in that way, Morwenna.  I have put up with your scolding tongue long enough.  I have done what you asked – it is time that you kept your part of the bargain.'

             
'Morgan is not dead yet.'

             
'But near to it if I am any judge,' Rhys said.  'I know they will torture him to make him confess Owain's whereabouts…'  He shivered as the ice touched the nape of his neck.  'You have all you want and now I intend to take what I am owed.'

             
'No!' Morwenna cried but she could see by the glint in his eyes that he would not be stayed.  'I wanted to come to you sweet and freshly prepared not like this…'

             
It was a weak excuse and she knew it would not make him draw back.  She had kept him at bay for so long only because he feared that they would lose everything if he did not listen to her, but excuses would not hold him now.

             
She let him kiss her, lying still as he caressed and explored her body, finally possessing her with a hunger she could never match.  His loving did not rouse her, though once she had found it pleasant enough.  Hatred had destroyed all the natural feeling in her, making her cold and unresponsive to his touch.

             
After he had done she lay staring at the ceiling while he turned on his side and began to snore.  She felt nothing but indifference towards him, knowing that she could endure his passion if she had to but had nothing to give him in return.

             
Rhys was a selfish lover, taking rather than giving, and she had known a different kind of lover, though only once.  The love she had felt for Morgan then had turned to hate and bitterness, but she had discovered to her dismay that revenge was not as sweet as she had expected.

             
She took no pleasure in the knowledge that Morgan was being tortured and would soon be no more.  Her hatred of him was all that had kept her going and without it she was empty.  Staring at the stone walls about her, she realised that she had merely exchanged one kind of prison for another.  Without Maire's gold she was trapped here with Rhys and would be forced to endure his mauling whenever he chose to exert his rights.

             
Somehow she must find that money!  It was owed her and she should have it.  With a fortune in her hands she could leave this dark house and go wherever she pleased.  Perhaps to England, where she might find a wealthy husband who would indulge her with all the things she had dreamed of as a young girl.  Perhaps she might even learn to be happy again, to forget Maire's staring eyes when she had choked on her own blood…

*

Morgan braced himself when the door of his cell opened but relaxed as he saw it was Jack Errin.  The soldier had brought him bread, a hard corner of cheese and water to drink.

             
'You are a welcome sight,' Morgan said and grinned at him.  For some reason they had not beaten him now for two nights and his pain was easing.  'I thought they had decided to starve me to death.'

             
'Sir Philip plans to burn you,' Jack said and shuddered, crossing himself.  ''Tis not right nor human, sir.  It would be kinder to hang you.'

             
'Even kinder to let me go,' Morgan suggested.  'But do not worry, Jack Errin, I would not have you risk your life for mine.  So when am I to be burned?'

             
'It was to have been today,' Jack replied.  'Sir Philip had decided that it was useless to question you further.  But the King's son has sent word that he wishes to see you.  He has decided to interrogate you himself.'

             
'Ah, I see…perhaps a more amusing form of torture…'

             
'You jest, my lord,' Jack said and crossed himself again.  'You know I would help you if I could?'

             
'Yes, I believe you would,' Morgan said.  'But I shall not ask it of you, Jack – but you would still do better to serve the Lady Rosamund.  Leave the master you despise and go to her.  Tell her that you were kind to me and that I asked a similar kindness of her for you.'

             
'I must go,' Jack said and looked nervously over his shoulder.  'Eat what you can, my lord.  They will come for you soon.'

             
'The condemned shall eat heartily?'  Morgan smiled.  'I thank you for your thought, Jack Errin.'

             
Morgan's smile vanished as the soldier went out and he began to eat hungrily.  They had given him water but no food for the past two days and his stomach was growling fiercely.  For a moment he felt as if it would reject the food, but he forced it down, swallowing the brackish water, making himself finish every last crumb of the stale cheese and coarse bread.  After he had eaten he got to his feet and began to pace the tiny cell, back and forth, back and forth.  It was important not to let himself become weak.  He must fight the blackness that seemed to take over his mind when he let it, to remember Kestrel's words.

             
The healer had not come to him again, though he had tried to summon him.  Morgan accepted that his strength was returning little by little, though how much of that was natural healing and how much came from his faith in Kestrel he was not sure.  What new torture would they invent for him now?  He knew that so far he had not suffered the refinements of a torture chamber, where terrible instruments of cruelty were used to wring a confession from the poor wretch subjected to these torments.  Clearly, Sir Philip had not come prepared for such work, but perhaps they had been sent for?