Princess of the Sword (49 page)

Read Princess of the Sword Online

Authors: Lynn Kurland

BOOK: Princess of the Sword
6.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
For them, however, Sìle had thrown open his gates and allowed in a full score of souls. That he saw no irony at all in the thinness of his guest list had made Miach smile more than once.
Master Ceannard had come bearing gifts not for the bride and groom, but for Sìle himself, which Morgan’s grandfather had accepted also without a shred of irony. Nicholas had come, of course, as had all Morgan’s mercenary companions. Royalty had arrived from Durial, Ainneamh, and Camanaë. Master Soilléir had come as well, not only with a promise of spells delivered personally to Neroche when Morgan wished to have them but with Morgan’s brother in tow.
Miach hadn’t minded spending most of the first week of his marriage working with Morgan and Sìle to restore Rùnach’s hands and face. Perhaps he would always bear the scars of what had befallen him, but they wouldn’t be so severe. Rùnach had promised to divide his time between Seanagarra and Tor Neroche, which had pleased Brèagha and Morgan both.
After a suitable amount of time spent with one pair of grandparents, he and Morgan had traveled to Lake Cladach to spend another se’nnight with Eulasaid and Sgath before finally coming to beg a night or two in Hearn’s hayloft. They had then returned to Tor Neroche and to the business of settling the realm.
He couldn’t say it had been an easy transition for either of them. He still loathed even short meetings with self-important ministers and Morgan still fidgeted during state dinners. He supposed they would both learn patience eventually, but in the meantime he was finding ways to politely hurry people along and Morgan, well, Morgan could still be heard to recite Weger’s strictures under her breath when things went on overlong. It cheered him to know that under all those exquisite court clothes he’d seen fashioned for her was still the woman he loved. He had endeavored to humor them both by providing dancing as often as possible after supper, and by happily flying with her after the dancing.
He watched with a smile as Morgan now did what she did best, which was leave every man in her vicinity on his knees in front of her. Hearn’s finest guardsman was indeed very good, but he would not in this lifetime or the next come close to besting her.
“She’s passin’ good, ain’t she?”
Miach looked to his left and found himself joined by two small boys. They were hanging over the top of the horse fence and watching Morgan with the same amount of awe he was wont to use himself.
“Aye,” he agreed, “she is.”
The elder of the two looked up at him. “We’re on our way to be pages at the palace,” he said, puffing his small chest out. “Me and my brother. We heard tell Queen Mhorghain was here in Aherin and Lord Hearn was good enough to let us come have a look at her.” He frowned at Miach. “Don’t suppose you’d know her, would you, sir, being but a soldier yourself?”
Miach caught sight of their father, standing on the other side of them, looking as if he would rather lay himself beneath Morgan’s very sharp sword and perish than be where he was. He started to open his mouth—no doubt to chastise his sons—but Miach shook his head with a small smile. He turned to face the boys.
“I’d say you’re from Istaur.”
The younger boy looked at him with wide eyes. “How’d you know that?”
“I travel a good deal,” Miach conceded. “What are your names?”
“I’m Gerald,” said the older. “And that’s Thomas.”
Miach shook their hands politely, then found himself being ignored in favor of watching the woman out in the lists. He joined them without hesitation. Morgan laughed as she wielded her blade and the sound was so beautiful, Miach thought he just might have to sit down soon.
“Does the queen need a page?” Thomas ventured.
“Shall we go ask?” Miach asked.
Gerald looked, for the first time, his age, which couldn’t have been more than nine. “But, sir, do you dare? She bears Weger’s mark, you know.”
“Does she?” Miach asked mildly. “Where did you hear that?”
“Word gets round,” he whispered reverently.
Miach imagined that it did.
“The king bears the same mark,” Thomas said, his eyes wide. “ ’Tis rumored he went inside Gobhann and earned it to prove himself worthy of her.”
“Even so, I’d rather be
her
page,” Gerald said, sounding as if he wished it very much. “She’s so fierce.”
Miach smiled at their father’s groan, then nodded toward the field. “Let’s go see what she thinks, lads. Stay behind me, though, lest the venture prove perilous.”
Gerald hesitated. “But, sir, you don’t even have a sword to defend yourself if she grows angry.”
“Aye, but he has a knife down his boot,” Thomas said. “Look you there, Ger.”
“That’s something, at least,” Gerald offered.
Miach agreed with them that it was at least something, then he climbed over the fence with the lads and waited whilst Morgan put the finishing touches on Hearn’s captain. He suddenly found a small hand slipping into his. He looked down and found Thomas looking up at him with an expression of such nervousness, Miach wondered if he might throw up. Perhaps this one could be given to Fletcher of Harding until they both mastered the urge to vomit in fear.
He walked with the lads and stopped a goodly distance away from where Hearn’s captain was crying peace. He waited until Morgan had put up her sword before he approached.
“Your Majesty,” he said, with a bow, “I have a pair of lads here who would like to make your acquaintance. If it pleases you.”
Morgan walked over to them, then squatted down and looked at the lads. “Good morrow to you, good sirs,” she said with a smile. “How may I serve you?”
“Serve us?” Gerald squeaked.
Thomas drew closer to Miach.
“I don’t think they want you to serve them, my queen,” Miach said. “I believe they want to serve you.”
Morgan looked up at him in surprise. “How?”
“By being your pages.”
“Does the queen have pages?”
“She does, if she likes the look of them.”
Morgan frowned for a moment or two, then held out her hand and waited for Thomas to take it. She pulled him over to stand next to her.
“I daresay being the queen’s page is not a task for the fainthearted,” she began thoughtfully. “I would need a pair of lads who aren’t afraid of hard work. Or horses. Or coming out in the lists on occasion to give me a bit of sport.”
“Oh,” Gerald breathed worshipfully.
Thomas looked at her for a minute with trembling lips, then he threw his arms around her neck. Miach caught Morgan before she was borne backward, then steadied her. She thanked him politely, then looked at the lads.
“Well? You two look up to it.”
“Oh, aye,” Thomas said, pulling back and looking at her as if she’d just offered him one of Hearn’s finest horses.
“Aye for me too,” Gerald managed. He paused, then looked up at Morgan with a frown. “Why don’t you have the Sword of Angesand there, Your Majesty?”
“Because I don’t train with that sword,” she said easily. She showed them her blade. “This is one an old friend made for me. ’Tis my everyday blade.”
“Aren’t you afraid you might need to be protected?” Thomas asked. “Did you bring a guard?”
Morgan smiled. “Just that lad there behind you.”
“But he doesn’t even have a sword,” Gerald said in disbelief.
“He doesn’t need one,” Morgan said. She turned Thomas away from her and patted his back. “Go tell your father that I’ll have you, then present yourselves at the palace when it suits your sire. I’m sure I’ll want to talk to him about your care.”
The boys nodded, but dragged their feet as they started away, as if they didn’t particularly want to leave her.
Miach understood.
Morgan looked at him. “And just who are
you
supposed to be? The stable boy?”
“Aye. Come along, wench, and we’ll have ourselves a pleasant afternoon in the hayloft.”
The boys ran toward their father.
“He called her wench!” Gerald exclaimed. “Father, she’ll have him hanged for that, for sure!”
Miach raised an eyebrow and looked at his wife. “Will you?”
“You’re safe for today,” she said. “And likely tomorrow as well. Take me somewhere I can sit and I’ll think about the day after.” She dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “I think I need a drink of your elixir, Miach.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “As you will, love.” He walked with her and was surprised by how hard she was leaning on him. He looked at her and realized suddenly that she didn’t look at all well. “Morgan, you’re green.”
She shook her head gingerly. “I think I just overdid this morning. A rest will put me to rights. But let’s send my new charges on their way before all manner of tales go round the pub about the queen and the stable boy.”
“Please, nay,” he said with a half laugh. He walked with her over to where the lads were jumping about their father like two enthusiastic pups. He leaned against the fence as Morgan discussed a few details with their father, then smiled at the look on the boys’ faces when she told them that the stable boy was actually the king of Neroche and that the reason he didn’t have his crown on was because it was likely under his bed.
“Another three conquests made,” Miach said with a smile as he watched a very grateful father gather up his gaping sons and walk off with them.
She smiled, then went into his arms. “I think there’s only one conquest I care about. Are you won?”
“Completely.” He kissed her softly. “Come have a drink from Hearn’s other well, Morgan. You’ll feel more yourself once you do.”
She nodded and took the hand he offered. He walked with her across the field and through the gate, then continued on with her in the shade of the hall to spare her any more sun.
He realized suddenly that she was very unsteady on her feet.
“Morgan, what ails you?” he asked in surprise.
Her only answer was to suddenly turn and lose her breakfast onto a handy compost heap. Miach waited until she straightened before he put his arm around her shoulders.
“Morgan, what is it?”
She shook her head carefully. “Nothing. I just need to sit.”
He led her over to sit on the edge of Hearn’s second well, then handed her a dipper of water. She rinsed her mouth, spat the water out, then accepted another to drink.
“Spectacular,” she managed weakly. “It seems a shame to waste it.”
He reached out and brushed a stray strand or two of hair back from her face. “What did you eat for breakfast?”
She waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t want to think about it, given that I just experienced it again. It was likely the same thing you had.”
He considered. He put his hand to her forehead, but there was no undue heat there. He frowned. “How do you feel?”
“As though I have contracted some sort of wasting illness,” she said grimly. “Nothing tastes as it should—when I can bring myself to eat anything.” She put her hand over her belly protectively. “We’ve had four good months, Miach. Perhaps that is all we were destined to enjoy.”
He laughed in spite of himself and almost went swimming as a result. She scowled at him, but he ignored it and put his arm back around her shoulders, wondering how he might broach the subject he’d been thinking on for the last pair of fortnights. Wasting illness, indeed.
“Morgan,” he began gingerly, “do you think you might be expecting?”
“Expecting what?” she asked, waving her hand in front of her face again. “Bloody hell, Miach, can you smell that? What sort of vile beast are they roasting inside for supper?”
“I can’t smell anything,” he admitted. He rubbed his hand over her back soothingly for a moment or two until he was certain she wouldn’t reach for her blade if he pursued the subject at hand. “Morgan?”
“What?”
He took a deep breath. “I wonder if you might be, well, with child.”
The next thing he knew, he was resurfacing from a good tumble into icy well water. He came up spluttering.
“Did you push me?” he asked incredulously.
She was standing up with her hands on her hips, looking down at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted horns. “You’re damned right I pushed you,” she said in astonishment. “What do you mean
with child
?”
“Well,” he said reasonably, “it has been known to happen.” Then he felt his mouth fall open. “Morgan, what in the
hell
were you doing in the lists?”
She folded her arms and frowned back at him. “Taking a bit of exercise. And only a bit, unfortunately. The lads were too intimidated to do aught but pretend to strike at me. I assume I can still count on you for a decent bit of sport.”
He started to say
absolutely not
, but he had another look at her expression and decided that perhaps he should just keep his mouth shut. He heaved himself up out of the water, then clambered over the edge and sat down on the rock. He looked up at her.

Other books

The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) by Knight-Catania, Jerrica, Gayle, Catherine, Stone, Ava, Charles, Jane
No Rest for the Dove by Margaret Miles
Disco for the Departed by Colin Cotterill
Switcheroo by Robert Lewis Clark
The Duke’s Desire by Margaret Moore
A Trade For Good by Bria Daly
La isla misteriosa by Julio Verne