Chapter 11: Blimey

The rest of Morgan’s week was filled with boring court functions and dull interactions, during which the gentry plied her with useless gossip. The most outlandish bit of information an unflattering tale about how she was a courtesan that the queen had procured, all to cheer up her rather bored youngest son. It didn’t matter, silly rumours brought a smile to Morgan lips, to her they were simply examples of the fact that a life motivated by gossip and snobbishness must be a lonely one. The truth was at the end of a long day, she could don some casual attire, meet up with her friends and just be herself. Their evening gatherings in the main parlour were always full of merriment; they would spar, play cards, or imbibe the King’s whisky. The setting for most of their activities happened to be a balcony which over-looked the upper city. Nothing was better than looking down upon the very people that filled her day with excess snobbishness. It was during such an afternoon that Morgan’s interest was piqued when she overheard a boisterous discussion between Bob, Marlo, and Gary, “No, I’m telling you the truth, King’s honour. Me and Gary were porters in the army, we were there. The duke used to have secret meetings with seedy characters. I swear one even had tattoos on his eyelids, shady sort he was.” The issue with Bob’s declaration was that Morgan took him to be the sort of person that the duke would think was rather brainless.

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That night as she lay in bed incessant feelings pestered her, they continued deep into darkness until she begun to wonder if sleep would ever arrive.

The next morning Morgan woke tired and with a heavy heart; she had spent a good part of the night wrestling with herself, knowing something had to be done and doing it was another thing entirely. Declaring the King’s Brother was a traitor was paramount to suicide, still she asked her maid to assign extra layers of makeup and went in search of Leo and Sha. Thoughts of Sha brought pangs of guilt, despite his repeated attempts to engage he had been kept at a safe distance, her heart aching every time he wore fresh hurt in bright eyes.

The long hallway was a place to be lost to your thoughts, sometimes it was lonely even with company, “What is it?” Meena asked.

Morgan smiled, her words pensive, “It’s nothing really, I just can’t help feeling like everything is changing and I’m just not sure how I feel about it.”

“You think way too much,” Meena replied, her eyes darting, feelings made Meena anxious.

The only occupant of the Royal parlour was Leo; he was absorbed in reading a book the title of which was none other than, Plains Herder: Horse Breeds and Their Uses for Hunting. Morgan had become fast friends with him—not only did she respect him, but he really was a likable person.

Morgan cleared her throat and waited for Leo to mark his page, the smile he aimed in her direction was an advertisement for excitement, “Good Morning, I was about to come and find you. Would you by any chance let me borrow your horse, just for breeding purposes? I promise I will give him back without a scratch. Well, you know what stallions are like. I’m sure he will be rather pleased with himself.” Leo was getting wound up on a topic that he was very passionate about.

“Yes, of course you can but can we have a chat please,” she asked.

“For the use of your horse, I’ll give you more than a chat, ill name my first born after you!” Leo replied. She raised an eyebrow, “Ah first born foal, of course, what can I help with?” Meena rolled her eyes then strode out of the room, probably to go in search of less tedious pursuits.

Morgan spoke openly, knowing that Leo preferred such, “I wanted to talk to Sha as well. I think you both need to hear this.”

Leo’s casual reply inferred that he was starting to understand the serious nature of her conversation, “Not a problem, Sha will be back soon, you can run it by me for practice if you like.” Unsure how to proceed she faltered, “Oh dear, it isn’t like you to be so hesitant with your words, take your time, for once I won’t interrupt.”

Smiling her thanks, Morgan took a breath then spoke halting words, “I’m just going to say it, I haven’t got solid proof, but I have heard troubling intel that your uncle might be involved with the black cloaks.” She stopped to gauge the impact of her words and was taken aback by a passive facade, “You don’t seem surprised?”

Frowning Leo spoke in quiet tones, “I appreciate that you had the courage to speak to me about this, it says a lot about you,” he paused to let out a long sigh, that sent his shoulders downwards, “Father got told similar stories many times, but each time nothing could be proven, witnesses would die, stories would change. Before he got attacked, Father told me he got our spy master to watch him, and still nothing.”

“Does Sha know?” She blurted.

Tensing, Leo’s voice took on a firm edge, “Sha loves his uncle. I could not do that for something that isn’t proven nor could my father; he’s a member of the Royal Family. This isn’t the early ages Morgan we can’t just murder people for a rumour, if we could prove it, then we could—”

When Leo’s words suddenly died out, she glanced upwards to discover the very topic of their conversation strolling casually into the room. No stranger to intrigue, Morgan continued to speak as if they were in the middle of a conversation, “It’s a deal then, Your Grace, you may borrow my horse if you name the first foal after me.”

The duke halted his progress, standing over Leo commanding an audience with his very existence, Morgan took up a position at her preferred window, this man was not going to scare her from any room. Thankfully, the scene below brought happiness, Piper in her favourite spot, helping the Queen in the gardens—Luthor Leo’s hunting hound bounding around them. The Queen had taken it upon herself to teach Piper about herbs, and surprisingly, she seemed to be genuinely interested. At the edge of her vision, she could see Leo doing his best to pretend that he couldn’t see his uncle. Leo had returned to his book after their conversation, it wasn’t until his uncle cleared his throat loudly that he pretended to notice the imposing presence. The prince’s acting was poor, in a refreshingly funny kind of way.

“Leo, my boy, I would like to ask a small favour from you,” Fife Dallinger asserted. The duke then stared in Morgan’s direction, she continued to gaze out the window.

“Come now, Uncle, anything you need to say to me you can say in front of the Lady, especially about hunting,” Leo said, he sent Morgan an exaggerated wink, she stifled a giggle and politely channelled disinterest.

Leo’s uncle cut the room with harsh words, “As your father’s stand-in, I demand that you let me have a fleet of ships so I can go and hunt some black cloaks.”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat, it was all that she could do to continue with the charade. Yet, Leo’s reply gave hope, “Uncle, you already have command of a large chunk of our Amy’s, as depleted as they are. I’m going to need a lot more information.”

The duke replied as if he was lecturing a child, “I have spies all around Sirillia and the whole western continent. I have corroborated all the evidence; the black cloak’s main stronghold is now in Astrom. I plan to go there and set it all alight.”

When Fife Dallinger completed his lecture, he slammed a fist down upon the table that was holding Leo’s book, catching his book before it hit the ground the prince slowly placed it back upon the table before raising to meet his uncle in stature. Standing equally as tall and wide Leo radiated anger. Morgan offered calm words, hoping to cut the tension, “Wouldn’t it better to assess the issue with a smaller force; why would you warn them you were coming with a fleet of ships; my crew could do such a mission with ease.”

Morgan wished she could take her confrontational words back, when she turned to find a pair of cold eyes boring a hole into her. She held the gaze defiantly. “What, pray tell, gives you experience in military matters; aren’t you a simple merchant?” The duke spat contemptuously.

Pushing down her anger, Morgan replied with a calm that she did not feel, “You have no idea what I am, and am not, capable of.”

Surprised at her own words and this man’s ability to put her on edge, she took long slow breaths, Leo broke the silence, “Ah yes, both good ideas, why don’t we decide the best approach with a bit of combat, your best fighters, Northern Rules.”

“See you at the grounds in an hour,” Fife Dallinger asserted coldly before storming out of the room,

Morgan was still listening to the loud footsteps when understanding dawned, “Leo, did you just request we settle our differences with combat?” She blurted, “What were you thinking? What if he wins? You will need to give him control of a large chunk of the navy.”

Leo looked panicked, “Okay, I’ll admit I choked. But he used the parent-child voice. Please win, tell Meena to wear him out; he uses brute force to quickly take down his opponents.”

“I think we will have to revisit this some more later,” Morgan asserted. Taking her leave, she went in search of her friends; the day was turning out differently than expectation had promised. Thankfully, she still had her head as well as a few cards up her sleeve.

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Sha was unnerved, his father was flat upon his back looking agonisingly pale, the King of Tornbaer was normally a domineering man with a healthy but stern disposition. Sha noticed that that his father’s eyes were open, he moved around the bed to make sure that he could be seen, hard to believe but a faint smile played across the Kings lips.

Sha had been trying to catch his father in a lucid state since he had arrived. He sat seizing opportunity, “I’m home father,” he said, before hesitating under the weight of unsurety.

His mother chose that moment to stroll into the room, “Careful, he needs rest, don’t stress him out,” she warned, levelling an even stare.

A familiar feeling of annoyance played upon Sha’s senses. Yet, instead of taking offence he took his father’s hands and started to speak, making sure not include the more unsavoury bits of information, he told of his exciting adventures. When Sha had finished, he glanced up to find tears in his father’s eyes. Realisation dawned, there was still more important words to be said. He held his breath steeling himself for what was to come, then opened his mouth to release hidden shame. Leo burst into the room. Sha looked at Leo’s face, his brother’s expression conveying one unmistakeable word, “HELP!” Sha released his father’s hands and departed in a wave of sadness. He hadn’t done what he set out to do, apologies are always hard, this one doubly so, the words he had carelessly thrown at his Father were weighing heavy upon his heart. It didn’t matter, freedom from guilt would have to come later, when time allowed.

“Do you want to let me know what is going on?” Sha asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with Leo’s annoyingly hurried pace.

“I just may have set up a duel between Uncle Fife and Morgan’s champion.”

“You did what? Are you mad? Why would you do that?” Sha blurted, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“I’m sorry, Uncle used the parent-child voice, you know how much I hate that.” Ignoring the lecture that he would receive from his mother for running in the halls, Sha lengthened his stride, his grumblings adding further fuel to a now frantic sprint.

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Word had spread well before they made it to the training grounds, the grounds packed with lords, ladies, castle staff and soldiers alike, all curious as to why anyone would want to fight the best swordsmen since Reginald the third. It was said that Reginald was so great, he could use any weapon and be equally proficient, the sudden disappearance of his rival was the reason that Sha’s uncle was given the auspicious title. Despite the fact that he looked up to his uncle, he was concerned Fife Dallinger was very competitive and such bouts were a show of brute strength that usually didn’t last long. Sha came to a stop next to Leo who was looking uncharacteristically anxious, “If he hurts Meena, Morgan will never speak to me again,” He hissed, Leo replied by shifting his weight, the movement timed to the sounding of the horns, the competitors were ready.

First, Uncle Fife walked onto the grounds, his leather breastplate good for movement, rather perfect for this type of contest. Behind him walked Morgan and her friends in stoic support of Meena. Leo spoke loudly so the gathering crowds could hear, “LET THE COMPETITORS COME FORWARD.” To Sha’s horror, Morgan stepped forward, her beautiful features set in icy calm.

Sha rushed over to where Marlo watched on with the rest of Morgan’s friends, “Why is Morgan fighting? I thought Meena was your best?” He implored.

Marlo raised a massive eyebrow, “Oh, my boy, you are in for a real treat,” he affirmed, the offhand remark heightening Sha’s anxiety somewhat.

He strode back over to Leo, the pale colour of his brother’s face told him that he shared a similar panic, “Leo you can’t let Morgan fight,” He begged.

Leo looked like he wanted to run and hide, instead he stepped forward and made a loud but slightly croaky announcement, “CHOOSE YOUR WEAPONS.”

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Morgan rested in calm, the importance of her next actions unseen. Truthfully, something was a little off about the man before her, among other things he was wanting to wage war upon a continent that was already destroyed by years of it, not to mention burn a city to the ground for harbouring a few criminals, it was all so wrong. Morgan forced herself to focus, stretching out her muscles in a deliberate manner. Northern rules for sword bouts were relatively straightforward; they involved a lot of finesse because you had to either cut your opponent three times or incapacitate them; they required more skill because most of the time combat was about killing—this was about something else. For the northerners, everything was a production, even death. She stepped up to the weapons rack, her hand stopped at a short sword; it had good weight and felt right. Fife Dallinger gave her a disingenuous smile, his response to her weapon choice, he had of course chosen a hand and a half longsword—the most common in Tornbaer and apparently his preferred weapon. Morgan shrugged it off, taking her position at the centre of the fighting area she indicated readiness with a nod. She stood ready, breathing relaxed, grip loose, stance sideways, free arm behind the back.

The horns freed Morgan’s foe, his impact immediate, like a deadly viper he sliced the air beside her, then near her head in quick succession. Using her sword to block then parry she settled into routine, at one with breath and movement. Fife Dallinger changed tack, aiming a sharp end towards her unarmed side, a shortened sword leaving her open to such attacks. Reaction allowed deflection, then she swapped her sword into the opposite hand, a look of surprise crossed his features, it was quickly followed by frustration. The crowd made, “Ahh,” noises, the gentry leaned forward in their seats, suddenly paying attention rather than conversing about the mildness of the day. Morgan was oblivious to it all, her attention upon an adversary that sent fourth increased strikes, their ferocity merciless and always from a different angle. She was now astutely aware of why her opponent was so dangerous, nothing was given away, there was no pattern to his attacks, Leo’s advice providing much needed guidance, she needed to wear him down.

Onwards it continued, soon both competitors were labouring for breath, blows slowing in speed and intensity. The duke’s training must have been extensive, he found the capacity to rally; her sword a split second to slow to block, the effect gifting a stinging sensation when sweat mixed with blood, the cut minor despite a fresh ribbon of red dripping onto an already slippery hilt. The crowd cheered at first blood, still the battle continued in earnest, no one getting the upper hand.

Morgan persevered through seconds that felt like minutes, minutes that felt like hours, her body screaming, her reliance on training and muscle memory. The strategy paid off, moments later she saw an opening, a second too slow after a strike she sliced into the duke’s hand causing him to drop his sword. Breathing heavily, she advanced before her opponent could pick up his discarded weapon. Morgan gifted her adversary a moment to glean understanding before flicking her wrist to send her sword into the ground then stepped backwards once again, her unspoken words clear, “Pick another weapon, let’s dance some more.” Morgan’s guess at her opposition's next move was correct, like any bully he charged thinking unarmed combat was preferable with a woman. A fist brutally aimed at her face. Controlled and fluid she used a sweeping forearm to guide the force harmlessly away, then pulled the duke downwards using his own momentum. Her next action bringing a swift ending to the bout, she sent her knee upwards and into her assailant’s face, the result a satisfying fall to the ground, unconscious. The excited cheers of the mixed classes assaulted her senses, uncomfortable amongst the attention, she bowed in Leo’s direction then quickly walked away from the noise. Young children raced along beside her as she lengthened her stride, desperate to be anywhere else.

Her quickened stride took her past the Queen who had come out to see what all the ruckus was about. “It’s about time someone put that man in his place but why didn’t you just cut him twice when he dropped his weapon?” She asked.

Morgan bowed, “That was a message” She offered, “I’m afraid I need to ask you a favour, my Queen. Where we are going it is too dangerous for Piper-”

“Think nothing of it, I will treat her like my own,” The Queen interjected, her smile conveying gratitude. Task complete, Morgan left the crowd behind, there were after all much more important things to be done, such as cooling down, stretching, and preparing her ship for a long and most likely dangerous voyage.

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When Fife Dallinger found consciousness, the ache hit first, his head threatening to send him back towards darkness. He wondered why he was in bed, realisation dawned, a voice mocked him cruelly only adding to frustration, “Well, that didn’t go to plan did it, who knew she was that good at fencing, and apparently unarmed combat.”

He grasped the speaker by the shoulders, gripping hard, “You will get on that ship, and if the black cloaks don’t kill them first, you will finish the job.”

After a nod of acceptance, his servant departed to carry out his commands. Fife smiled to himself, he placed his hands behind his head and leaned back into the pillows, his thoughts on vengeance, a trail of blood running from his nose onto the bedding, left unnoticed.