Morgan the Rogue (5 page)

             
Morwenna's cheeks flushed with fire.  'I did not realise you were…' she floundered as she saw the mockery in his face.  'You are unkind, sir.  I was shocked by…I had never seen…'

             
'A naked man?'  He grinned at her, his eyes so blue and filled with a fire that made her tremble.  'And did you like what you saw, Morwenna?'

             
'You are too forward, sir.'

             
'Or not forward enough.'  She heard the soft chuckle of laughter and felt hot.  His words seemed to suggest so much more than they said.  'It would be sweet to dally with you, lady, but I must away.  I have work to do.'

             
'Are you leaving so soon?'

             
'Do you wish I might stay?  I am sorry to disappoint you for I have never disappointed an eager wench before.'  His mockery stung her and she tossed her head.  'Do not despair, sweet Morwenna.  I may yet return – or I may not.  I am free – free as the air that surrounds you.  I have a living to make and all the world is open to me.  I bid you adieu, fair one. Be careful what you do at the river…'

             
'You were not drunk last night,' she said as he prepared to ride away.  'If you plan harm to Owain he is well protected.  I would kill you myself rather than let you harm him.'  She touched the dagger at her waist, her look fierce and angry.  'If you betray him you will be my enemy.'

'I should not like for there to be enmity between us,' Morgan said, the smile dying from his eyes.  'I cannot tell you more, Morwenna – but no matter what you hear, I ask you to think kindly of me.'

             
As he rode on past her, Morwenna turned her head to stare after him, feeling an odd ache in her breast.  Would she ever see him again?  He had spoken of the whole world being open to him and that boded ill in her mind.  The only way a man in his position might see the world was to sell his sword to the English – the enemy of her people.

             
She walked back towards the house, head bent, her plans to escape to the river somehow tarnished by this chance meeting.  What kind of a man was Morgan Gruffudd?

             
Entering the courtyard, she saw the young man who had accompanied Morgan here.  He was dressed now in the way of Owain's men-at-arms, a leather hauberk over his short tunic and hose, his head covered by a helmet of leather and chain metal.  He was already hard at work practising swordplay with the others, and had no time to do more than smile at her as she passed.

             
Rhys Llewelyn was a handsome man, Morwenna thought.  His smile did not terrify her the way Morgan Gruffudd's did, and she smiled back at him.

             
Going into the hall, she saw that the servants had cleared away all the debris of the night before and were sweeping the floor with fresh herbs to sweeten it.  A couple of hounds hunted in the old straw to seek out scraps of food or bones that might have been discarded the previous night, and the servants half-heartedly chased them off every now and then, laughing and muttering to each other as they worked.

             
Morwenna was about to mount the steps to her solar when she heard her father call to her and turned to wait for him to come up to her.

             
'So you have been out already, daughter,' Hywell said.  'Well, I dare say you are safe enough here for Owain's men would not harm you – any who laid a finger on you would be hanged for his folly.  I am assured of your comfort with Owain so I may leave you in peace of mind.'

             
'Leave me, Father?'  Morwenna stared at him.  'You mean I am to stay here without you?'

             
'For the moment, though I believe Owain means to travel to Sycharth soon.  He will take you there and you will have female company to make your stay more pleasant than here.  I ask only that you do nothing that would cause either of us shame.'

             
'You know I would not, Father – but may I not come with you?  Do you go home?'

             
'Not for the moment, daughter.  I have work – work that will take me many a league before I return.'  He shook his head as she looked at him inquiringly.  'Nay, daughter, this is men's business.  You would not understand, and it is best that you don't.  Come, kiss me, child, and receive my blessing.'

             
Morwenna kissed his cheek as he bade her, and felt the touch of his hand on her head.  A cold chill had settled at the base of her spine and she was suddenly afraid for him, afraid of this work that must take him away from his home and all that he held dear.  She suspected it was to do with the secrets she had overheard Owain and her father discussing the previous day.

             
'Is your work dangerous, Father?'

             
'You ask too many questions, my daughter,' Hywell said.  'Go up to your nurse now and think of your wedding.  Owain has the matter in hand and it may be that in a few months you will be married to a man deserving of you, but you must not plague your kinsman.  You will be told when the time has come.'

             
Morwenna made no reply as she went on up the stairs to her solar.  Why did men always seem to believe that women were incapable of understanding?  She understood all too well that her father's business was for Owain, and that it had something to do with his intention to declare himself the true prince of Wales.  Her father was being sent as a messenger or to gather information, of that she was certain.  She just hoped that it was nothing more dangerous, though considering the nature of Owain's secret plans even carrying a message was dangerous enough.  The English would torture and kill any man they believed to be involved in such nefarious business.

             
It was odd, she thought, that Morgan Gruffudd should depart so suddenly.  His quarrel with Owain had surely not been serious enough to warrant his departure?  Unless, there was some secret business he had undertaken for his kinsman?

             
Recalling the look in Owain's eyes the previous evening when she had been bold enough to warn him to be careful of Morgan, Morwenna wondered if she had stumbled on the truth.  Morgan had clearly been excited as he rode away that morning, not sullen or resentful, which he might have been if he had been refused service by his kinsman.

             
The more she considered, the more she believed she was right.  A little smile tugged at the corners of her soft mouth as she recalled Morgan's words to her.  She thought he might have been telling her that he would return to her, though he could not promise it openly – and he had asked her to think kindly of him.

             
It was possible that he too had departed to carry out some secret mission for Owain.  The thought pleased her and lifted her spirits, for if she was right it meant that he would return one day.

*

Morgan listened again as he heard what he thought was a woman screaming.  He was nearing the end of the forest that bordered the land that became England once the river was crossed, and could see the trees thinning and the light becoming stronger as the day gained on the night.  He had travelled constantly since leaving Glyndyfrdwy, stopping to rest only for brief periods, eating sparingly of the food Owain's steward had given him, determined to make good speed on his journey to Shrewsbury.

             
There it was again!  Screaming, a woman and a horse now, both terrified, and the unmistakable sound of fighting.  Spurring his horse forward, Morgan came out of the forest in time to see the struggle going on on the banks of the river.  Three women and two young pages were fighting against the men who seemed intent on capturing them.  The men were undoubtedly English, but looked like brigands rather than men-at-arms.  There were four of them, but Morgan did not think twice as he put his horse to the charge and with a yell that had struck fear into the hearts of many an Englishman, charged at them, sword in hand.

             
The woman were struggling and screaming, three of the men having dismounted to try and wrestle them to the ground, intent on rape it seemed.  The man still mounted seemed to be in charge and was urging the others on, but as he saw Morgan charging at him, drew his sword and rode to meet him.  Morgan's sword swooped down on him before he could do much more than begin to defend himself, slicing through the leather covering that he wore on his wrist as protection, penetrating through to the bone.  He gave a scream of pain as his hand was severed and his weapon fell uselessly to the ground, then turned his horse and fled towards the forest.

             
Morgan did not bother to give chase to the craven coward, wheeling his horse about and attacking the first man on the ground to break off from his attempt to subdue the women and draw his sword.  From his advantage, he dealt savage blows to the man's head and shoulders, his sword slicing deep into the rogue's neck so that a scream issued from his lips in a froth of crimson and he staggered and fell to the ground, his lifeblood draining from the savage wound.  The other two rogues hesitated and then, as he whirled about, ready to charge, they suddenly fled towards the forest, their horses running madly before them as they vainly attempted to catch and mount them.

             
Satisfied that they would not return, Morgan steadied his mount and looked down at the women.  Now that he had time to study them, he saw that one was a lady of high rank, the other two her serving women.  The pages were dressed in blue and yellow livery, and looked to be no more than eleven years of age.

             
'I thank you, sir, for your timely help,' the woman said in a soft husky voice that told Morgan she was English.  'Had it not been for your arrival I fear we were lost.'

             
'Why are you abroad at this hour and unescorted?' Morgan asked and glared down at her, incensed by such foolishness.  'Where are your men?'

             
'We have none with us,' the lady said, frowning slightly.  'For we thought it unnecessary so close to my husband's castle.  This side of the border we have always been safe – and indeed the rogues who sought to harm us were English brigands.  When my husband learns of this outrage on his land he will seek out the perpetrators and have them hanged.'

             
'Even so, you should not have been riding alone at this hour,' Morgan said, eyes narrowed as he gazed down into a face more lovely than he had ever seen.  'May I know your name, my lady?'

             
'Rosamund de Grenville,' she said.  'We are but fifteen minutes ride from my husband's castle, sir.  Will you not accompany us there?'

             
'Where are your horses?'  Morgan looked round and saw that five horses had wandered into the edge of the forest to graze, apparently unfazed by the altercation that had taken place.  'Wait and I will bring them to you.  Here, boy, hold my horse – and you come with me.'

             
He gave his reins to one page and the other followed obediently, helping him to recapture the horses and bring them back to the ladies.

             
'I shall help you to mount, my lady,' he said.  Taking her about the waist, he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle of the most richly dressed horse.  The pages had given their service to the other ladies to assist them, cupping both hands for a dainty foot before mounting their own ponies.

             
'You have not given us your name, sir?'

             
Her eyes were a greenish blue, as clear as a mountain pool; the strands of her hair, which had escaped from beneath her wimple as she struggled against her attackers a bright red gold.  Morgan knew a fierce sharp spur of desire in his belly and experienced a longing to know her intimately.  Never before had he seen a woman that stirred him this deeply!

             
'I shall be pleased to escort you, my lady,' he told her.  'For though I think those rogues will not return I do not like the idea of ladies riding alone so close to the forest.  Have you not heard that the Welshmen of these mountains are wild barbarians?'

             
Her laughter echoed that lurking in his eyes.  She gazed down from her horse's back into his face, clearly amused by his mockery.

             
'Are you not one of them, sir?'

             
'I am Morgan Gruffudd at your service,' he said with an elegant bow that would have surprised Maire.  'A poet of somewhat dubious worth, ready to sing for my supper at the board of any who will pay me.  Do not confuse my humble self with the fighting men of Wales.'

             
'A poet and a singer of tales no doubt,' she said, her eyebrows arching.  'I have heard that your bards sing of sedition and treason, sir.  My husband may be an English lord but he has lands across the border and I know more of the Welsh people than you may imagine.'

             
'Indeed, my lady?'  Morgan's expression did not waver.  'Pray tell me then why you were riding so close to the forest at this hour without your men?  Since you must be aware that there are those but a short distance away who would seize any person of nobility or wealth and hold them to ransom?'