MORGAN
CHAPTER SEVEN
As May gave way to June, Morgan divided his time between his two passions in life: Hawisia and farming. While he made considerable progress with the latter, the former remained his greatest challenge, because his wife maintained her characteristic reserved demeanor, despite the ground he gained in their bed.
As he collected a bouquet of daisies, which his lady finally admitted were her favorite, he envisioned her as she looked that morrow, with her light brown locks splayed across his pillow. Regaining his destrier, he flicked the reins and surveyed the workers, as they deployed the heavy plow in the fallow fields, per his supervision.
At his direction, the peasants focused their efforts on shearing sheep and making hay, which would continue through July, and in August they would harvest the fruit of their labors. After one last review, he heeled the flanks of his stallion and set a course for the castle.
After traversing the outer gatehouse and the barbican, he drew to a halt in the courtyard, whither a traveling coach sat. A stable hand took Morgan’s horse, and he doffed his gloves and dusted his tunic.
As he strolled into the great hall, Euphemia Van Goens spotted him, shrieked, ran in his direction, and flung herself at him.
“Sir Morgan, it is wonderful to see you.” In a brazen display of familiarity, she kissed him on the mouth, to which he took offense, because his lips belonged to Hawisia. “Oh, you brought flowers. Dare I ask if they are for me?”
“Lady Euphemia, this is a surprise, and I apologize, because the bouquet is for my bride.” He none too elegantly wiped his face and scanned the vicinity for his wife. “Lord and Lady Clare, we knew not of your visit, but I am overjoyed by your appearance. What brings you to Chichester?”
“We journey from Exeter to Canterbury, bearing royal correspondence from His Majesty and to meet Euphemia’s prospective in-laws. Thus we hoped to spend a night, hither, and see Hawisia.” Lord Clare glanced at his daughter, as she conversed with her mother, and Morgan noticed lines of strain about Hawisia’s eyes. Something troubled her. “She thrives in your care, Sir Morgan, and I am forever grateful.”
“Papa, stop hoarding Sir Morgan to yourself.” Euphemia tugged on Morgan’s sleeve. “What do you think of my gown? Is it not the finest?” She bounced. “Lady Isolde says they will hold a feast, this eventide, in our honor. Is that not exciting?”
“It is, indeed, Lady Euphemia.” Annoyed, Morgan retreated a step and sought Hawisia’s gaze. When he met her stare, what he detected in her blue depths caught his attention to the detriment of all else. “Pray, excuse me.”
Morgan nodded to Arucard and sidled through the gathering to approach Hawisia. When she noted his presence, he tipped his head, and she excused herself. Taking her hand in his, he walked into the screened hall.
“I brought you some daisies, my dear.” He presented his offering to her beauty, yet he garnered no smile, which further signaled all was not well with his lady. “What is wrong?”
“There is naught wrong, my lord.” She studied the floor. “If you wish to visit with my family, I understand. And I have chores, which doubled, given their arrival and the impromptu feast, thus I should be about my work.”
“Shall I order a bath?” He pulled her into his arms, and she tensed, which only piqued his concern. “Our new ancere is large enough to accommodate two. What say you, my dear? I will wash your back, if you wash mine.”
“Mayhap another time, my lord.” To his dismay, she curtseyed. “Pray, excuse me.”
As Hawisia scurried into the kitchen, Morgan considered her distress and resolved to console her, later. At that moment, he sought Isolde, because he had been scheming to surprise his wife, and the unexpected celebration seemed the perfect opportunity to launch his plan.
In the great hall, he flagged Isolde. “Is the gown complete?”
“Aye.” She nodded once, and then started. “Oh, Morgan, I get your intention, and it is perfect. Let me speak with Margery, to ensure everything is finished.” She waved to Arucard, who neared, and she whispered, “Take Morgan to the dungeon, at once.”
~
Although Hawisia was no scullion, she was never one to shy away from work, thus she devoted herself to preparing accommodations for her parents and Euphemia. What she was not prepared to withstand was her little sister’s gloating, as Euphemia insisted Morgan was unusually attentive for a husband.
It was for that reason Hawisia lingered on the verge of tears, when she entered her private chamber, whither Anne waited.
“Sir Morgan has already bathed, and he bade me to take my time dressing you, Lady Hawisia.” In the absence of a lady’s maid, which Hawisia had yet to hire, Anne fulfilled the charge, and she seemed to understand Hawisia’s temperament. “Now, let me get you out of that dusty garb, else you may miss the feast.”
“That would suit me just fine, Anne.” Hawisia sighed, as she mulled the hug and kiss with which Morgan greeted Euphemia.
Despite Hawisia’s best attempts to remain aloof and unattached, she had fallen in love with her husband, given his thoughtful pursuits. But she should have known he would revert to his old self, the instant Euphemia paid call.
After a brief soak, which did much to soothe her physical aches, she donned a fresh chemise and sat, as the maid plaited Hawisia’s hair. “Anne, I think I will wear the green, this eventide.”
“I apologize, Lady Hawisia, but Sir Morgan ordered you wear the blue.” Anne tugged on the hose. “In fact, he said he would brook no refusal, my lady.”
“The blue?” In silence, Hawisia reflected on her belongings. “What blue?”
“Your new gown, my lady.” Anne walked to the footboard and caressed a garment of unmatched elegance. “It is a gift from Sir Morgan. Is it not beauteous, my lady?”
“I had no idea he did that.” Stunned, Hawisia swayed and leaned against the bed for support. “Then who am I to refuse him?
Bedecked in two shades of blue trimmed in gold embroidery, she stood before the long mirror, as Anne tightened the laces. Just as Hawisia slipped her feet into her shoes, Morgan appeared in the solar.
“May I come in, my cherished wife?” The endearment rang hollow, given she expected him to dote on Euphemia at the celebration. “I have something to complete your attire, as I find it lacking something.” He glanced at Anne and said, “You are dismissed.”
Alone with her husband, Hawisia seized upon a series of excuses to avoid attending the feast, but she lacked the courage to speak them aloud.
“I am sorry you find me lacking, my lord.” She bowed her head.
“That is not what I stated, my treasured lady.” He kissed her nose and tipped her chin, bringing her gaze to his. “You are stunning, but I would give you a present, which is but a trifling frame for a masterpiece.”
Moving to stand behind her, he draped a necklace fashioned of pure gold about her neck. A mix of diamonds and sapphires, the expensive jewelry boasted delicate findings and shimmered even in the dim candlelight of their room.
“Morgan, this is too much.” She fingered a glittering stone. “I cannot possibly accept it.”
“Hawisia, you are my wife, to gown and adorn as I choose.” With that, he settled her palm in the crook of his arm. “And I am but a beggar at your side, wither I intend to remain.”
True to his word, he never left her alone, when they joined the revelers in the great hall. Wine flowed, music played, and the servants set out an impressive display of food.
Too nervous to dine, Hawisia scooted a savory brewet from one end of her trencher to the other. Eventually, the moment she dreaded came to pass, as maids cleared the dishes.
“Shall I collect an assortment of sweetmeats, my darling?” Morgan took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “As you hardly touched your supper.”
“That would be lovely, my lord.” Beneath the table, she clenched her fists.
Couples gathered in a clearing, and the first dance commenced. When she discovered Euphemia hanging on Morgan’s arm, Hawisia opted to run, because she could not face the humiliation, as he partnered her sister.
Given the throng, she steered left and then right, before reaching the exit. Beyond the confines of the crowded room, she paused, leaned against a wall, and closed her eyes, as if she could shut the pain so easily.
“Hawisia.” Morgan rushed into the hall, and she jumped. “Whither are you going?”
“I thought I would retire.” Clinging to the last remnants of her composure, she hugged herself. “But do not let me ruin the evening for you. Stay, and dance with Euphemia.”
“But I have no desire to dance with your sister.” He wrinkled his nose, and should almost laughed. “I want to dance with you.”
Now that was more than she could withstand.
“Yet you prefer her.” To her chagrin, she wept. Heaving horribly ugly sobs, she stumbled, and Morgan caught her. “You wanted her. You said as much on our wedding day. Do you not remember, ‘I wanted the younger sister,’ because I will never forget?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry.” He kissed her cheeks, her forehead, and then indulged in a lengthy invasion of her mouth. “I never should have said that, because I could not have been more wrong.”
“How am I to believe you?” Fresh tears streamed her face, and she unleashed the pain that had so long nestled in her chest. “How do I know I am what you prefer, when you are so fickle? What if you know not what you want?”
“I wager I deserve that, given my shameful treatment of you, but I have tried hard to atone, because I care for you.” He cradled her head and held her close. “While I once chose false attachments and easy friendships, now I favor hair that shimmers like spun gold in the sunlight, eyes of the clearest blue, which sparkle with the light of a pure heart, lips that speak naught but the truth, and the charitable soul that always puts others before herself. Can you not see, my dear Hawisia, I have no choice, as I desire none but you?”
“I know not how to believe you.” But she ached to believe him.
“Oh, open your heart to me, Hawisia.” Again, he kissed her, and then he bent and swept her into his arms. “I promise, I will not disappoint you.” He carried her up the stairs and made for their chamber. “I know I hurt you, but I beg you to give me another chance.” He swept through the solar, strode into their inner sanctum, and eased her to the bed. Lying beside her, he cupped her cheek. “That is all I ask.”
Perched on the banks of her Rubicon, she realized the choice was now hers to make, and she could either live in the shadows or step into the light, as Morgan’s wife, in every way. What would Hawisia pick? “All right.”