by Lisa Jackson
Her father’s features softened. “I could never treat you like a prisoner, daughter. You are too like the falcon — free in spirit and body. Yet there is truth in what Glyn says. The servants do speak of you and, yes, even laugh at your expense.”
“Even though I have proved myself?” Morgana demanded, her temper beginning to fire as she stood in the half-light of the stables. She stomped her foot angrily, and a horse neighed. “Did they laugh when I found the smith’s wife lost in the woods and nigh to deliver his firstborn son? Did they laugh when I foretold the storm that rippled the thatch from the roofs of their huts? Did they laugh when I discovered the wounded soldier and knew him to be a traitor?”
The horses shifted restlessly in their stalls.
“Nay, daughter, they did not laugh.”
“But now they mock me, and that is because of Glyn. ’Tis she who does not understand that the forces of nature are at one with God! ’Tis she who makes fun of that which she does not understand! ’Tis she who thinks it is becoming to a woman only to sew and stitch and primp and pray!”
Daffyd took his daughter’s arm, leading her from the dusty interior of the stables. “Mayhap Glyn is right,” he said sadly.
“But surely—”
“Now, listen, Morgana, I want no more of your spells or your sorcery. From this time on, I want you to concentrate on acquiring the skills of a lady.”
Morgana’s eyes became slits. “What of the trouble to the north? Wish you to know no more of it? Would you risk your family, your castle, those vassals who are loyal to you, because Glyn has decided ’tis time I became a lady without vision?”
“You try my patience, daughter!”
“As you try mine, Father.” They were outside now, and the armorer, who was dipping mail in barrels of sand and vinegar, glanced at them, only to let his gaze slide away. Several tradesmen, leading horse-drawn carts, were rolling into the bailey.
Morgana knew that she was being disobedient and that people could overhear their argument. She could see the spark leap in her father’s gaze. Though she realized he could be very strict and cruel when he chose to be, she could not hold her tongue. “The servants and your soldiers — aye, even Glyn — seek your protection. Would you deny them?” she questioned.
“I will put no more stock in magic and sorcery this day,” Daffyd declared. “You, daughter, will not defy me!” To add credence to his strong words, he strode directly to the porter at the gate and gave the order.
Morgana stared at his broad back and silently sent up a prayer for patience. Why, suddenly, was she at odds with the father who had indulged her all her life? Wasn’t it he who had taught her how to shoot straight with a bow and arrow? Hadn’t Daffydd himself loved God’s earth, and hadn’t his mother, Enit, been her teacher in the ways of magic? Hadn’t he allowed her to keep the wolf pup she’d found alone in the woods when others in the tower had seen the scrawny beast as an evil omen? Even Friar Tobias had crossed himself at the sight of the pup.
She stamped her foot in impatience and stalked back to the castle. She didn’t intend to pick up a needle and thread. No, she would wait, but she would do what must be done. “Stay,” she whispered to Wolf, scratching him behind the ears and leaving him in the great hall.
She climbed the back stairs to her grandmother’s room and found Enit sitting up in bed.
“You are in trouble, child?” Enit asked, barely able to speak, her voice rasping in her lungs. Her hair was so thin and fine that her scalp showed through the sparse strands, and her skin was wrinkled and spotted with age. Her blue eyes were now a milky white, and her vision was failing.
“Father has insisted upon keeping me locked in the castle.”
“Ahh — don’t tell me.” The old woman chuckled, but her laughter ended in a cough. “You have argued with your sister again.”
“It is impossible not to!” Morgana declared.
“But Glyn does not understand the powers. So far, of all my son’s children, only you have been blessed, though I was nearly a woman before I first noted my gift. But the sight will come to another of Daffyd’s children. This I have seen.”
“The sight, ’tis a curse!” Morgana grumbled. “’Twould serve Glyn right if she could talk to the wind. Then we’d see just how God-fearing she truly is!”
Enit lifted her frail hands and clucked her tongue. Her skin was nearly translucent, the blood in her veins webbing blue. “A curse you call it, but has not your gift saved us all?”
“Aye,” Morgana agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking her grandmother’s hand in hers. “But it frightens me,” she admitted. “’Tis so strange and so powerful.”
“Be patient, Morgana,” the old woman said, and the warmth from her frail body seeped into Morgana’s. “Be brave. Trust in your power as you trust in God.” Enit closed her eyes. “Aye,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible, her grip surprisingly strong as she clasped Morgana’s small hand, “there will be pain, but also great happiness, and that happiness, granddaughter, will be yours — if only you will accept it.”
Hours later in the lord and lady’s chamber, Daffyd sat on the edge of the bed and nudged off one boot with the toe of the other. His wife, already under the covers, saw his beetled brow and noticed his haggard expression. “You are worried, husband.”
He shrugged. Daffyd had never been able to confide in his wife. To him, telling her his troubles was a sign of weakness. “There are always worries.”
“Especially when one has a headstrong daughter.”
He glanced over his shoulder and snorted. “Two head-strong daughters and one mulish son.”
Meredydd laughed. “You would have it no other way.”
“Aye, but Glyn is right. I cannot allow the servants to gossip about Morgana.” He frowned as he kicked off his second boot. “I have decided it is time she married.”
His wife eyed him saucily. “Whom will she marry?”
“That I haven’t yet decided. But it will be a lord who can provide us with unity and protection from Osric McBrayne.”
“Would it not be better to marry her to one of Osric’s sons?” his wife asked, smothering a smile.
Daffyd shook his head, then yanked off his tunic. “I cannot give her to one of my enemies! God’s truth, Morgana tries me, but I cannot send her into marriage with a McBrayne.” On a heavy sigh, he blew out the candle.
“Good. Because Morgana will not like you picking her mate.”
“She has had long enough.” He slid beneath the fur coverlet, nestling closer to his wife, feeling the curve of her naked body mold itself against his backside. “She will marry and marry soon. Her marriage will increase the wealth and power of Tower Wenlock,” he proclaimed. “I shall speak to Morgana in the morning.”
“Saints be with you,” Meredydd whispered against his neck.
“That is not all. Cadell will be sent to another castle to learn his manners. He’s lingered too long with us as it is. Since he returned from Castle Broxworth where he learned to be a page, he has fallen back on his old slovenly ways.” Daffyd felt his wife stiffen. “Don’t argue with me about this, woman. ’Tis time for him to become a squire.”
“But he’s just a boy—”
“Aye, and a bullheaded one.”
“Like his father.”
“Or his mother.”
Meredydd sighed loudly, her breath stirring against the bare skin of his back. Daffyd quickly forgot about wayward children and centered his full attention on the woman who was smoothing her palms over the skin of his abdomen.
Morgana silently slipped from the bed. The room she shared with Glyn was dark. Only moonlight, filtered through a thin layer of fog, drifted through the window and allowed her any vision. The castle was still save for the sounds of Glyn’s breathing, a rodent scurrying through the rushes, and the wind whispering outside the walls.
Wolf, amber eyes glowing, raised his head, but Morgana pressed a fi
nger to her lips to quiet him.
Wearing her chemise and tunic, Morgana gathered her pouch, a rope she kept beneath her bed, and her dagger. She tossed her cloak about her shoulders, and carried her boots to the door.
“Where are you going?” Glyn asked, and Morgana, whose eyes had adjusted to the dim light, saw Glyn’s crown of blond hair move as she propped herself up on one elbow and yawned.
“I will be back soon.”
“You are defying Father.”
“I just need some air, sister.”
“You lie!”
“I will be back shortly, and I trust that you will not reveal that I am gone,” she said patiently, hoping Glyn would think their conversation a dream and fall quickly to sleep.
“Why shouldn’t I? You are out to practice the black arts, are you not?”
There was only one way to keep her quiet. Morgana stole across the room to her sister’s bed and, leaning over Glyn, whispered in a crafty voice, “Aye, sister, you have found me out. I go now to do that which is forbidden.”
Glyn’s eyes grew round in the darkness.
“It would be wise for you to pray,” Morgana added, sending up her own silent prayer for forgiveness for teasing her sister.
“Pr-pray for what?”
“That I don’t cast a spell upon you — a spell that could maim your beauty? Perhaps blacken your teeth or turn your hair the color of blood?”
Glyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “You would not!”
“No, I would not. Unless you do not keep my trust!”
“But Father forbade you!”
“Aye, and he will not know, now, will he?”
“You are wicked, Morgana, and evil! Father will punish you, and if he does not, then God will.”
“That is between God and me,” Morgana said. “Now, do I have your word?”
Glyn licked her lips and nodded, her pale hair reflecting silver in the moonglow. “Aye,” she whispered. “I will not betray you. Only please do not curse me.”
Morgana smiled in spite of herself. “I would not.” She turned to the wolf. “Keep Glyn here, Wolf. See that she escapes not.”
Glyn gasped in terror. “Do not leave me alone with—”
“Do not cross the wolf,” Morgana ordered her sister. “You yourself have called him a devil dog.”
“I will pray for your soul,” Glyn promised, trying her best to sound pious, though her voice trembled slightly.
“Do so.” But the thought of Glyn’s prayers only hastened Morgana toward her task. She often thought Glyn’s piety was convenient. Her younger sister did not seem so pure, as much as she wished to seem innocent. But Glyn’s devotion, or lack thereof, was not Morgana’s concern.
She was careful with the chamber door, for it sometimes creaked as she shoved it open. She glanced along the darkened hall. Running her fingers along the wall and counting her footsteps, she crept down the back steps and out the door to the bailey. The night watchmen were at their posts, but the fog, rolling in from the sea, was on her side as she hid in the shadows. She took the circular stairs in the western tower, where no sentinel stood. The soft leather of her boots barely scratched on the smooth stones as she climbed. At the top of the outer wall, she crouched, secured her rope, then lowered herself slowly, hand over hand, her feet braced on the smooth stones, to the outside and the grounds, which were high over the ocean. Leaving the rope dangling free, she walked carefully along the narrow path that zigzagged down the cliff face, her feet sliding on pebbles, for the way was dark, the fog a wet, misty blanket that clouded her vision as she followed the sound of surf pounding against the shore.
The briny scent of the ocean and the restless tide usually calmed her, but this night, knowing that she had disobeyed her father, deceived Berthilde, and threatened Glyn, she found no quietude in the sure movement of waves against the sand.
Walking to the edge of the sea, she waited, letting the fog wrap itself around her. The breath of the sea, cold and damp, brushed against her face. Morgana closed her eyes, envisioning the fog enveloping her, swirling counter-clockwise, forming a brilliant cocoon, protecting her and Tower Wenlock from the unknown enemy hiding in the mists.
When she opened her eyes again, she was soothed. Kneeling on the sand, she murmured, “Keep us safe, O Lord, from that danger which cometh from the north.”
With a stick of driftwood she drew a large circle in the sand. She placed dry tinder and driftwood sticks at the northern, eastern, western, and southern points of the circle, then placed a candle at each point. Using her flint, she carefully lit the candles, allowing the hot wax to drip onto the wood and chanting as she worked. “Nothing from the south can harm Tower Wenlock,” she intoned. After lighting the tinder, she watched the fire glow red, grabbed a burning stick, and strode to the westerly point. “Nothing from the west can harm Tower Wenlock.” Slowly she advanced to the north, lit the tinder, and said in a louder voice, “Nothing from the north can harm Tower Wenlock,” and finally at the easterly point, she intoned, “Nothing from the east can harm Tower Wenlock!” At that point, she ran back to the southerly point. Grabbing another burning stick, she hurled it into the air, sending golden sparks aloft to spray the ground. “Nothing from above can harm the tower.” When the stick fell, she picked it up, threw it hard on the ground, and watched the embers flash and sizzle in the fog. “And nothing from below can harm Tower Wenlock!”
Her spell accomplished, she cast her burning stick into the southerly fire and sat cross-legged on the sand in the middle of the circle. She felt the sea air shove her hood from her head and smelled the smoke as the four fires smoldered and burned.
Scarlet coals glowed against the sand. Crossing herself, Morgana began to murmur a prayer. But as she raised her gaze to the heavens, her words froze upon her lips.
Beyond the circle, past the northerly fire, the mist parted and the vision appeared once more.
On the other side of the golden flames that licked skyward stood a warrior, the fiercest she had ever seen. Blood red shadows danced across the angular planes of his face and turned his tunic crimson. His jaw was steady and hard, his black hair wet from the fog. Loose strands fell over eyes the color of steel.
Morgana’s breath stopped in her lungs.
“What kind of witch are you?” he demanded, his voice booming over the steady pounding of the surf. “A witch who casts spells and works omens, then crosses herself and starts to pray?”
So he was flesh and blood! He was so huge and dark that the thought that he was mortal was small comfort.
“Nay, I am no witch!”
“A sorceress, then?”
She shook her head, trembling suddenly from the coldness of the night. Her fingers fumbled for the dagger at her waist as she struggled to her feet.
His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “But you are Morgana of Wenlock, are you not?”
“Aye,” she replied, trembling in fear.
He seemed satisfied at that. Crossing his arms over a chest as broad as that of any of her father’s finest knights, he commanded, “Come with me, then. I have traveled many miles to find you.”
She drew a breath. So this warrior clad in black was the danger she had heard murmured upon the wind? “Are you from the north?”
“Aye. Garrick of Abergwynn.”
“The baron himself?” she asked in disbelief.
He nodded and motioned to the circle and the four fires smoldering in the night. “What is this? Some devil magic?”
She frowned at her useless scratches in the sand. How feebly they had protected her. It was probably these very fires that had caught the fierce one’s attention! “This is not magic at all,” she said in disgust.
“But you are the one with the powers — the one who can see into the future?”
Morgana evaded him. “Only occasionally, my lord.”
“Upon request?”
She shook her head, and the warrior scowled sullenly. H
e gestured impatiently to the four dying fires. Candle wax sizzled against the embers. “I have no time to tarry. Let us be on our way.”
“Us, my lord?”
“Aye, Morgana. There is no time to lose. I need you and your powers and will have you serve me.”
Morgana’s mouth nearly dropped open, but she held it firmly in place, and though this man was no sworn enemy, she slipped her dagger from its sheath. “I cannot leave Tower Wenlock without my father’s permission.”
His lips twisted. “Did he give his permission for you to steal into the night and light fires upon the beach and cast spells into the wind?”
Morgana wanted to lie, to wipe the smugness from his savage face, but she could not. If he was truly Maginnis, and his crest gave credence to his claim, then she was compelled to obey him. “My father does not know I am here.”
“You disobeyed him.”
“I tried to protect him. But I have failed.”
“Failed?” he repeated, kicking at the sand with his boot and extinguishing the northern fire. “Well, Morgana, you must not fail me.”
He advanced upon her, and as he drew closer, she tilted back her head to eye him full in the face, though her knees threatened to buckle. “What is it you wish of me?” she whispered.
“You must help me find my son.”
Chapter Three
“This is not the way to the tower,” she said, half running to keep up with the baron’s longer strides as he pulled her across the sand. He’d plucked her dagger from her hand and kicked sand over her fires, then told her that she had no choice in the matter.
“But it is the way to my camp.”
“You have your soldiers with you?”
“Aye.”
“To attack Wenlock?” Fear rose in the back of her throat.
He stopped, turning to face her in the darkness. “You think I would lay siege to my own vassal’s keep?”