MORGAN
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the wake of the feast, and the subsequent revelation Hawisia imparted, which explained much of her behavior and resistance to his advances, Morgan reached a tentative truce with his bride, as she finally dropped her guard and permitted him to woo her, in truth. Intent on showing her how important she was to him, and how lucky he considered himself to be her husband, he expended even more effort in surprising her. But the biggest shock came from an unexpected source.
Amid the official correspondence from His Majesty, as relayed by her father, was the conferral of an earldom and an estate. Thus Morgan packed his belongings and delivered his wife to their new home, Wardour Castle, near Salisbury, as the earl and countess of Wiltshire, tasked with farming the countryside, to provide food for the kingdom, which struggled to recover from the great famine.
After surveying the fields, which encompassed some three hundred acres, he returned to his home, crossed the drawbridge, and rode beneath the portcullis. In the courtyard, he dismounted and passed his stallion to a stable hand. As he doffed his gloves, he strolled into the cool passage that led either to the great hall or the private chambers, whither he found Anne, his wife’s lady’s maid.
“Whither is Lady Hawisia?” He doffed his gloves.
“My lady ventured to the peasant village, early this morrow, my lord.” Anne wrinkled her nose. “But I am worried about her, my lord. There is word of sickness, and I fear for my lady’s health.”
“Lady Hawisia is made of sterner stuff.” He chuckled, as recalled the previous night’s foray, when he took her on the dais, in the great hall. It took him a while to coax her, but once they started there was no stopping her. “Have we any visitors arriving for supper?”
“Nay, my lord.” The maid furrowed her brow. “But I can check with Geretrudis, if you prefer.”
“Grammarcy.” Then he snapped his fingers, as an idea occurred to him. “Anne, have Geretrudis prepare a meal to be served in the solar, but no buttered wortes, as they do not agree with my wife. Instead, I would have her cook some brewets, along with the rosemary bread and the apple muse Lady Hawisia favors. And have the ancere filled with warm water, as Lady Hawisia often bathes upon her return from the hovels.”
“Aye, my lord.” The maid curtseyed.
Retracing his steps, Morgan navigated the courtyard and walked beyond the drawbridge, whither he located a patch of daisies. After collecting a respectable bouquet, he returned to the great hall, strolled behind the wood-screened passage, and entered the kitchen, whither the housekeeper labored.
“Geretrudis, have you a vase?” He removed a few dead stems and crumpled leaves.
“Aye, my lord.” The squatty-bodied, grey-haired servant pulled the requested item from a cupboard, which she passed to him. “And, if I may, I thought I might serve some of my special clarrey, to which Lady Hawisia expressed a partiality.”
“Geretrudis, you are an angel.” He waggled his brows. “If I were not married, I just might pursue you.”
“You have no shame, my lord.” She chuckled in an unusually deep baritone for a woman. “Now let me be about my chores, because Lady Hawisia deserves my best work, and I do not want to disappoint her.”
“That makes two of us.” Armed with a perfect homage to his bride’s beauty, he strutted into their private apartment and arranged the vase in the middle of the table. Then he sifted through his robes, until he located the black, because Hawisia declared it was his color.
After washing his face and combing his hair, he changed into a clean shirt and tunic. Just as he sat in a chair by the heart, to await his wife, a commotion in the courtyard brought him to the large window, whereupon he spied Hawisia, slumped forward, atop her horse.
Taking the steps, two at a time, he descended to the first floor, pushed forth the heavy oak panel, and ran to the gentle mare.
“Hawisia.” As the master of the horse took the lead, Morgan pulled her from the saddle and cradled her in his arms. “Darling, what happened?”
Mumbling incoherently, she touched his cheek, and then she fainted.
~
Locked in some strange prison, Hawisia lingered somewhere between sleep and consciousness. No matter how hard she tried to wake, Morgan’s response made it clear she failed. But the agony in his voice tore at her heart, and she ached to console him. To reassure him she was with him.
“Sweetheart, prithee, do not leave me.” His plea came to her as if from afar, and it echoed in her ears. “My darling, I love you, too. Can you hear me? I love you, too. Pray, open your eyes.”
And then there was naught.
She floated amid a dark sea of confusion. Hot and cold at once, she shivered. Yet she was not alone.
A series of images played in her mind, as a cherished reflection of her relationship with Morgan.
The first time she spied him, at court. Of course, he knew of her, but everyone knew of His Majesty’s great Nautionnier Knights, and she always considered him the most beauteous of all.
And then there was their wedding, whither he took her hands and pledged to keep himself only unto her. She did not believe him, then. But she doubted him not, now.
“My Hawisia, are you there?” Again, he called to her, but she could not answer. “I am with you, my love. I am with you. And that is your pet name, which I composed just for you. Simple yet strong, just like you, my love. And you are my love, if you would only greet me, that I might declare it. Tell me you persist, as I cannot live without you, Hawisia. I cannot live without you.”
She struggled. She reached for him but grasped naught. Slowly, it seemed as if she slipped away, little by little.
“There is naught more I can do, Lord Wiltshire. The disease must take its course, and Lady Wiltshire rests in Our Lord’s hands. The most I can recommend is prayer.”
Bereft of any mark of time or place, Hawisia endured in a pensive state, as she recalled the rough manner of the consummation. In truth, Morgan frightened her not, because her mother had explained everything, in frightful detail. But Hawisia had hoped the momentous occasion would be memorable. She supposed it was, but for all the wrong reasons.
“Our Father, I beg you, do not take Hawisia from me.” Morgan clutched her fingers. “I will do anything you ask of me, but do not take my love. She holds my heart, and without her I am dead. Prithee, I have been your faithful servant, I fought wars in your name, and I honored the sacraments. Now, I ask for something in return.”
Darkness enveloped her, and she longed for rest, for a respite from the seemingly unending torment. So she followed the peaceful trail, as from a distance, Morgan beckoned. “Hawisia. Hawisia.”