Exiled

Warnings: None
A/N: For those of you interested in a timeline for this fic, I’ve set it roughly just after Scotland gains its freedom in Independence wars in 1314, after Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce is still not recognized by the pope as the true king, and England has gone back to licking its wounds. Otherwise this is an alternate universe setting; any and all mentions to a king of England will be a fictional king of my creation. I really don’t want to go screwing around with English Royal history… it’s confusing enough ^_^;

Translations: Conchobhair: Connor Righ: King


Exiled Chapter 2
Arrival at Castle Conchobhair

The steady pounding beat of forty horses riding hard along the dirt packed road could be heard a mile off, as the Lady Emmeline’s caravan made its way ever closer to Castle o’ Conchobhair Lord Morgan of Kent’s home. The caravan had begun three days before from Dublin, heading to the coast, and steadily further from civilization, not that Dublin could be considered civilized, crawling with Irish as it was.

Sighing softly, Emmeline looked out the window of the carriage once more, trying to see if she could spot the castle, her home, her exile, for however long her father chose to continue this charade. Seeing nothing through the dust she settled back in with a forlorn sigh, hoping to get a rise out of her companion, Margaret. No such luck, the woman concentrating heavily on her needle work despite the rough travel. Nearly jolted off the chair for the fifth time in less than an hour as the carriage hit a rock, Emmeline clutched her stomach, “For God’s sake, is there not an easier way to reach the castle?” she muttered softly, as she leaned back against the seat, looking out again, still seeing nothing but horse flesh and dust.

Looking up from her needlepoint, Margaret sighed softly, tucking the material away for the time being as she looked over to her charge. Long straight brown hair framed a thin face with high cheek bones, light golden eyes and plump pink lips. If this Morgan of Kent could not be taken in by the golden angel Emmeline portrayed there would have to be something wrong with him. “This is the only road to the castle milady. We’ll be there shortly and you don’t need to become agitated before you meet your husband.” She said quietly.

“Some husband, the man can’t even be a proper Lord, he must live out in the middle of no where on a piece of rock no one will care about in a few years.” Emmeline muttered petulantly. “There is nothing here, Margaret; at least at home I was near enough to London.”

“How quickly you forget child, you have never set foot in London.” Margaret commented with a kind smile. “You just miss the gossip around court dear. But have no fear you’re living in a castle now, gossip makes the world go ‘round in a castle.”

“But it’s not good gossip; it’s whether this knight is after that maid. Besides most of the gossip will be in that God awful language of theirs, or God forbid it might be Norse. How Lord Kent manages to survive in this place I do not know.” She muttered quietly.

The sounding of a horn could be heard at the head of the column, Emmeline’s honour guard making known their arrival to the castle. Standing on a hill a large fortified castle stood, high and turreted it gleamed in the noon sun. Pasture land sprawled around the large structure, sheep grazing in large herds, the wool a major income to Castle Conchobhair. Emmeline looked out once more as they crossed the draw bridge, the noise inside the castle cacophonous, the entire castle turning out to get a glance of the English Lady arriving for their Righ.

The carriage stopped, Emmeline quickly ducking her head back in, looking through the curtain nervously. Although she’d had been waiting for this for nearly three months suddenly it was now upon her. She was to be Lady of this castle, away from family and all her friends, though truth be told her friends numbered few, but still there were no ladies nearby, she was possibly one of the youngest in the castle, her only companion Margaret and her four Ladies in waiting she insisted on bringing with her.

The door to the carriage opened, the first commander of her honour guard, Reginald an old grizzled warrior who had been by her side since she was still hanging from her nurses apron strings looked upon her, a kind smile on his otherwise harsh face, “Milady, ‘tis time.” He said quietly, offering his hand for her to step down.

~*~*~

Sleep did not come to Morgan easily after Cathan left. His mind was still racing with thoughts of the morrow, and what the future would hold now that his father had seen fit to meddle in his life once more. Getting up he walked over to the large table covered with correspondence from the outlying kingdoms, paper strewn about with no apparent order, a jug of watered wine in the middle of the mess. Pouring a goblet he paced the room slowly, idly wondering if his father had intentionally wed him to a shrew; yet more punishment for not being his brother Darby.

He didn’t want to hate this child, for that was what she was. But he feared that might be the case when this farce had reached its conclusion. Finishing the wine he set the goblet aside, dressing quickly he wrapped the heavy cloak around his shoulders making his way silently to the stables. Refusing to wake the stable boy he walked over to a large brown warhorse, the beast stamping its hooves restlessly. Smiling Morgan saddled Lorccàn calming him before he walked him from his stall. Mounting he spurred his horse on, needing the freedom from responsibility if only for just a moment.

He charged across the country side, losing himself to the steady beat of the horse’s hooves again hard earth and soft grass. Rearing back when he crested a hillock he turned and looked down at his kingdom. ‘Twasn’t a kingdom, not in the true meaning of the word, it hadn’t been one for quite sometime. His grandfather had been steadily losing land to other petty kings, in raids along his borders, the fierce man keeping most of his land despite urges to give up. But his grandfather had been a shrew man, when problems between the Welsh and the English had been most bloody he had looked to cement his holdings with the English, knowing after they finished with the Welsh it was only a matter of time before they looked across the water. Marrying his young daughter to an English lord, due to inherit an earldom, Ailill the sixth Righ of Conchobhair Castle knew he had cemented his position well. What he hadn’t counted on was the lack of interest his son in law should the ancestral castle and the Irish people.

After the death of the grizzled Righ, the fourth earl of Kent left the castle with a skeleton guard under the command of an aging caretaker. He hadn’t remembered his wife’s holdings until she had reminded him when they were deciding how to deal with the scandal Morgan had created. Morgan had hated life in Eire when he had arrived; although he had since grown accustomed to the change of pace he still missed the excitement of England. But in England he wouldn’t have Cathan. That was the long and the short of it. His lover had come to mean too much for him to leave the island.

Looking over his shoulder at the long road leading to Dublin, Morgan sighed, and headed back home. He could never leave Cathan; it would be like leaving a part of his very being behind. Stabling Lorccàn, Morgan headed back into the castle, falling to his bed, managing a few hours rest before daybreak.

~*~*~
Morning greeted the castle; the sun’s rays glinting off the sea washed stone, the residence busily attending the last minute details before the arrival of the Lady. Although there was little doubt where the Righ’s heart lied, the arrival of the girl might be a blessing. Or so everyone hoped.

Cathan walked the ramparts nodding to each of the soldiers he passed, lost in his own thoughts. As the castle bard it was up to him to create a wedding song to praise the lord and his lady. Something he did not relish, but it was his duty and a useless bard as nothing. He’d spent most of the night, composing the ballad, his mind working quickly and easily over his lover, paying careful attention to weed out any metaphors that were too personal. He would have wait until he had seen the lady before he could properly incorporate her into the ballad, but all that left him with was a nagging sense of worry and doubt about what this lady would bring to the castle.

The little he had gleaned from Morgan of his father and the circumstances of his exile here were not pleasant. And while Cathan didn’t view Morgan coming here as an exile, he knew that even after a year and a half his lover still did. He didn’t doubt his lover’s feelings, Morgan so private that any emotion he expressed was deeply felt, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Morgan would be happier away from this place. Their relationship he knew held Morgan back from his father’s reconciliation, this wife a further attempt in trying to drive a wedge in their relationship.

Leaning against the wall he gazed out at the ocean, humming softly the tune ancient, the words long lost in history. He had almost left last night; part of him couldn’t bear the idea that he might be the one to cause his lover’s continued unhappiness. But he was selfish, and he knew it. The idea of ever leaving his lover’s side tore at his heart. Even if he had to watch from the shadows, ‘twas better than being away from Morgan. Leaving the castle wall he turned and headed back to the great hall, the commotion outside just beginning as the carriage delivering the lady arrived in the courtyard.

Making his way to the main doors he stopped smiling as his lover came down the stairs. Licking his lips Cathan raised an eyebrow in question, his lover’s attire not consistent with meeting a bride. The coloring was darker almost somber, although the fabric was rich, the black shining in the sun. Bowing to his Righ, Cathan leaned into the gentle if hidden caress of Morgan’s hand as he passed, his eyes widening faintly when he noticed the coat of arms emblazoned on the cloak his lover wore. Not since the old Righ’s passing had the Conchobhair coat of arms seen the sun, but not it gleamed in all its glory, understanding dawning. Morgan refusing silently to greet his wife as the minor noble he was in England. Rather he was meeting the lady as a King.

Following his lover, Cathan smiled inwardly before stepping forward, the crowd parting as the small girl alighted from the carriage. Pasting a smile on his face Cathan looked around at the gathering before bowing low, “My Righ, may I introduce you to the Lady Emmeline of Wessex.” He said rising to turn to the young girl, “My Lady may I present to you, the seventh Righ of Castle Conchobhair, and the future Earl, Morgan of Kent.”