Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) by K.E. Saxon

and closed her eyes tight. What a fool she’d made of herself.
All the court must have laughed heartily at the nearly beggared,
white-haired mute, with little chance of drawing such a one’s eye,
following him around like some eager hound.
    Vika patted Morgana’s knee. “Do not fret so,
for, ‘tis plain now that Robert likes you as well, is it not? Or—he
did take you again after he discovered the switch, did he not?”
    Morgana’s cheeks burned even hotter, but she
slid her hands away from her face and, giving her cousin a joyful,
wide-eyed look, nodded her head.
    Vika grinned. So. The lass had been
well-fledged, it seemed. Good. ‘Twas good to learn of such things
from a man you desired. An image flashed in her mind then of a
Norse warrior—bright-haired, proud, and strong—but she scuttled it
back into the dark recesses of her memory, turning her thoughts
back to her cousin. “And you found the gift I left for you—sewn in
the hem of the cloak—and used it?”
    Morgana’s nod was sheepish.
    “Well, then. You see? All is well. You must
wed your lover and appease my father’s ire.”
    Morgana’s mien turned sad again and her
shoulders slumped. She shook her head.
    Vika sighed loudly. “ Why? ”
    Morgana began a mad explanation, her hands
and lips moving rapidly.
    Vika sat back a bit and nodded her head.
“Aye,” she said with a sigh, “I know of his troubles.” She got to
her feet and began to pace, chewing thoughtfully on her thumbnail.
“I do not know the sum that he’s seeking, but surely my father will
settle a sizeable dowry on you and that will help his cause—if not
relieve it completely.”
    Morgana knew differently. She’d already been
told, in angry detail, of what she could expect from her uncle in
the way of dowry now that she had humiliated the family with her
wanton behavior: Naught.
    Vika stayed another hour continuing to try
to convince Morgana to change her mind, but Morgana refused to
budge in her conviction that she must not stand in Robert’s way of
finding and wedding the heiress he clearly so desperately
needed.
    She settled at the table then and ate as
much of the meal as she could stomach. ‘Twould no doubt be the last
for quite a time.
    Afterward, she rinsed her mouth, bathed her
face and slid, naked, under the blankets and linens atop her bed.
It took her quite a while, but sometime in the wee hours of the
morn, she at last drifted into a troubled sleep.
    * * *
    Morgana was wrenched from her bed not long
after by her uncle, the priest standing not four paces away, and
told to dress quickly.
    Scarlet flags of humiliation colored her
cheeks as she hastily threw on the chemise and gown her uncle
tossed in her face.
    “ ‘Tis the dungeon for you until you agree
to wed that cocky knight who ruined you. And after you’ve given the
priest your confession, he’ll mete out your penance.”
    Dread filled Morgana’s breast. The dungeon?
Were there not criminals there, chained and diseased, awaiting
their final plea to the King, or their final end? Her resolve
wavered, but then her heart overrode it. Nay, she’d not be the
cause of Robert’s downfall. And surely her uncle would relent after
a time, when he saw that she would not give in to him.
    With her head dipped in deference and her
hands clasped in front of her, she followed behind her uncle, the
priest directly at her heels.
    She lifted her eyes, but not her head, to
her uncle as they walked down steps and through the halls and
chambers of the abbey toward the tower dungeon. His gate was
purposeful, his back rigid, his arms swinging at his sides. He was
not a tall man, only an inch or two taller than herself. But he was
wide. Not completely gone to fat, but not as lean and muscular as
she’d been told he had been in his youth. His torso was long, but
his legs were short and stubby.
    They were going deeper and deeper down a
winding stone staircase, getting e’er closer to that dark pit she’d
heard tales of from some