Morgan the Rogue (44 page)

             
Then it must have been Maire who had come to comfort her.  Morganna liked to believe it for it made her feel happy to know that she had been loved – was still loved – by her grandmother.

             
Sometimes her life was almost unbearable.  Morganna's mother was hard to please and forever scolding her.  Yet she had not beaten her.  A sharp slap about her legs now and then but no worse.

             
Morganna could bear the scolding and the slaps.  Her deepest hurt came from the knowledge that her father had forgotten her.  She had heard nothing from him in all these years.  She had been eight when Richard died and now she was only a few months from her thirteenth birthday.

             
She knew that both her father and Lady Rosamund blamed her for their son's death.  It must be so for otherwise she would not have been forgotten.

             
Morganna had ceased to weep for herself.  Intelligent and diligent, she was also a spirited, friendly girl and spent her time being as useful to her mother and others as she could.  She had learned all she could about making cures and simples from her mother and Gwenny, and from the book she had bought from the peddler who came to the fair every few months. 

Her skill was becoming talked of everywhere in the houses that were hidden in the valleys about the Black Mountains.  The people were often isolated and yet communicated with each other through the travellers who passed by; folk whispered one to another and in this way Morganna's fame as a healer had spread beyond the confines of her home.  And  it was to Morganna rather than the mistress of the house that the servants came if one of them was sick.

             
She smiled as Gwenny brought her mantle, fussing over her as she always did.  Even if her father had forgotten her she could always rely on her nurse for love and devotion.  She had made up her mind that she would go to the fair as her mother had bid her, for she could buy things there that would make the healing tisanes she prepared for her mother and the servants.

             
'Are you ready, my lovely?'

             
'Yes, Gwenny.'  Morganna's blue eyes sparkled with excitement.  She was already bidding fair to becoming a beauty, her colour striking, and her features classic rather than softly pretty.  'I shall order some material from the cloth merchant today.  It is time that both you and I had a new gown.'

             
Gwenny nodded.  Morganna was the darling of her heart, and she thought her far more lovely than her mother had ever been.  If she had had the benefit of a loving family she might already have been betrothed, but it was unlikely to happen as things stood.  It would be a wicked waste if she were to give up everything to nurse her mother.  Morwenna would die slowly over a period of months or years, for she had the same wasting sickness as Maire.

             
'You should send word to your father,' she said as they left the house to walk to the village where the fair was held twice a year.  'Your mother is very ill.  It might ease her mind to make her peace with him at the last.'

             
'Do you think so?'  Morganna looked at her doubtfully.  'Even if it would I do not believe he would come.  He has so much to do – and it might be dangerous for him.'

             
These were difficult times, the English hunting for the rebels everywhere.   It had been hard for the people too, this revolt of Owain Glyn Dwr, for harvests had been lost, towns destroyed and the people were always the ones who suffered most.  And yet there were many who would always bless the name of the man they considered their rightful prince.

             
'Your father will come if you ask it,' Gwenny said.  'Morgan Gruffudd was always a man to do his duty – even if he has forgot his duty to you these past years.'

             
'But even if I sent a message it might not reach him' Morganna said looking thoughtful.  'No one knows where he or Owain is to be found.'

             
'Some know,' Gwenny told her.  'It is not spoken of for the English would give much to capture them and end this war that drags on so uselessly between us.'

             
Morganna nodded.  She knew that Owain, her father and other of his devoted followers were hiding somewhere in the mountains.  The English were weary of this war, as were the Welsh, but while Owain was free there was always a chance that the tide would turn his way once more.  He was a legend to the people, and his name brought hope even at this darkest time.

             
'If France or Scotland would but come to Owain's aid…I heard someone say that it might happen yet.'

             
'I know naught of that,' Gwenny said and frowned.  'Your father would do better to make terms.  He could return to his manors then and take you to live with him.'

             
'I could not leave my mother.'

             
'You mean you will not.  There are others to care for her.  You are too young to spend all your time nursing a sick woman.'

             
'I could not leave her knowing that she might die,' Morganna said, a determined jut to her chin.  'But I shall send to my father and tell him that I believe she may be dying and it would be a kindness in him to visit her one last time.'

             
She would send her message to Caris for if anyone knew where to find Morgan Gruffudd it would surely be Lady Rosamund.

*

'This came for you some months ago, my lord.'  William Baldry handed Morgan a small sealed packet.  'We did not know where to reach you or I would have sent it on.'

             
Morgan sensed the disapproval in the steward's manner.  His stern features were expressionless, hiding his thoughts, but Morgan knew that he was angry.  William had never truly liked or approved of him and he sensed that the feeling of hostility had not lessened with the years.  William thought that he had hurt and neglected Lady Rosamund and perhaps he had, though not intentionally.

             
He opened the packet as he walked up the stone steps to Rosamund's solar, frowning over the message it contained.  Morganna had sent word that her mother was very sick.
             

             
I think she is dying
, the girl had written.
Gwenny says it is the same sickness as my grandmother died of and indeed it seems that she suffers in the same manner.  I know there has been an old quarrel between you.  Would it not be a kindness in you to forgive her now that she is dying?  If it is possible I would ask that you visit her one last time.  Your loving and obedient daughter, Morganna.

             
He was aware of guilt as he folded the letter and tucked it safely inside his surcote, knowing that he had neglected the girl since Richard's death.  At first his grief had been too sharp and she would have been too vivid a reminder of his loss, for of all his daughters she was the most like Richard in spirit and temperament.   However, the tearing pain had softened with time, leaving a dull ache and an emptiness that could never be filled.

             
A part of the emptiness was because of the estrangement with Rosamund.  She had rejected all attempts on his part to comfort and reach her, and that had hurt him.  In the end he had simply stayed away from Caris, believing that her love had turned to hate.  It was now the year of 1413 and the bitter winter was on the wane.  He had returned because he was too weary to go on for the moment and needed to rest to recoup his strength and his spirits for the spring.

             
'My lord…' Bethan was leaving Rosamund's chamber as he reached it.  She was a comely young woman now and Rosamund's closest companion since Alicia had left her to live in England.  'Shall I tell my lady you are here?'

             
'Do not trouble yourself.  I shall go in and surprise her.'

             
Rosamund was gazing out of the window, her face half turned from him, the proud line of her head reminding him of the young woman he had first met.  She was as beautiful now as she had been then, but there was an air of sadness that never left her, a lessening of the bright spirit that caused him to feel an ache of loss in his breast. Their time of happiness had been so brief.

             
'Rosamund…'

             
She turned as if startled from a dream, then smiled.

             
'I was thinking of you,' she said and the softy, husky tones of her voice set his heart racing.  Her power to move him to hot, straining desire was as strong as ever and he felt the urgent burning in his loins.  'Somehow I thought you might come.'

             
'The winter has been hard,' Morgan said.  'Sometimes we are close to despair.  We hear nothing but ill news these days.'

             
'I have heard that many are surrendering – have surrendered.'

             
Suddenly her face was intense, passionate, her eyes seeking his in an emotional plea.  'Why do you not sue for peace, Morgan?  You will never win this fight and can expect nothing but years of useless wandering.  In the end they will find you and you will hang.'

             
His expression did not change, though he felt both the justice of her appeal and sorrow that she should need to make it.  'I have always risked death, known that it may await me in the next moment.  I see no reason to change now.  The people love Owain.  He is spoken of and sung of as a great hero.  While he lives there is always hope for the future.'

             
'Do not be a dreaming fool,' Rosamund said and in her urgency her tone was sharper than she meant.  'Why waste the rest of your life?  Philip is dead.  If you were to make terms with the English we could go anywhere, live in peace and care for our daughters.  They will soon be of an age to marry.  Do you want them to waste their lives too?'

             
'Have you wasted your life, Rosamund?'  Morgan's expression was harder than she had ever seen it, his eyes as cold as a mountain pool.  'You knew from the start that I had pledged my life to Owain.  I shall never betray him.'

             
'You will not desert him but you care little for your daughters or me.  Why should we suffer for your foolishness?'

             
'You speak truly.  I have no right to ask you to stay here for my sake, Rosamund.  You must leave if you choose, go where it pleases you.  Now that Philip is dead you could marry again – to a man of your own rank.  A more fitting arrangement than that I have offered you these many years.'

             
Rosamund went white.  She felt as if he had slapped her in the face.  How could he say such things to her?  After all the love that had been between them – but it seemed that love was gone.  It had died with Richard.

             
'Yes, I could marry if I chose,' she said.  'But that is my affair I think.'

             
'Rosamund…' He took a hesitant step towards her and halted as he saw her haughty pride; head high, face white, manner regal, she was untouchable.  The barrier was there and he could not find the way to breach it.  'You know I did not mean to hurt you.  If I were free…'

             
'But you are not,' she replied.  'You would never be free even if there was no Morwenna.  Your duty is to Owain.  Return to him, Morgan.  Leave me to grieve alone.'

             
'Rosamund…' He stared at her in silence, feeling helpless as he realised he did not know this woman.  The woman he loved had retreated into a world of her own where he may not enter.  Once he would have taken her in his arms, kissing away the hurt and the pain but she was too far away from him.  'Forgive me.  I never meant to hurt you, nor that your life should be as lonely and bitter as it seems.  I wanted to give you everything, but I have brought you naught but sorrow.'

             
'No, that is not true,' she said, some of his hurt reaching through her shield.  'We were happy until Richard died…' She gave a little choke of despair.  'I thought that if we could live together in peace we might find that content again.'

             
'I am not sure that once something is lost it is possible to find it again.  Besides, my loyalty to Owain lies between us.'

             
'Then I see no hope for the future.'

             
Morgan cursed inwardly as he saw the hurt mirrored in her lovely eyes.  Why could he not give her the one thing she asked?  She had asked so little of him over the years.  What was it in him that refused to admit defeat?  Was it merely pride or a stupid stubbornness that would lead him to his death?

             
'I think it best that I leave,' he said after the silence had deepened and stretched between them, becoming painful.  'One day I shall return if it is possible.  If you are here and things have changed…'