by Lisa Jackson
Morgana was not flattered. “Then mayhap you should believe your eyes and not the gossip of my father’s men.” She plunged her dagger into the dry earth, intent on her task, but Strahan was not to be neglected.
Standing, he dusted off his hands. “Glyn tells me you hunt and shoot an arrow as straight as do any of your father’s soldiers.”
She saw no reason to lie about her talents. In truth, she would exaggerate her skill to scare the knight off. “Aye.”
“Also, that you are … quick with your dagger.”
She fingered her knife. “If need be.”
Dropping to one knee, he leaned close to her, his breath fanning her ear. “Then tell me, can you see what will be?” he asked eagerly, excitement showing on his hard features. “Can you tell what will happen next year or the next?”
Morgana stopped digging. “Nay.”
“But you have found lost ones, warned the townspeople of storms, and even discovered a traitor.”
She didn’t respond. Sweat inched its way down her back and oiled her palms, making digging more difficult under Strahan’s watchful eyes.
“Did you warn of an attack on the village?”
Again she kept her eyes lowered.
“A talent for seeing what will come is of great value, Morgana,” he said very deliberately. “Is that why you are not yet betrothed, because your father feels your value is too high?”
She lifted her head then and felt the anger burning in her gaze. “I have not yet married as I have not yet found a man who suits me,” she told him, placing the herbs in a cloth bag and slinging it over her shoulder.
A hard smile crossed Strahan’s lips. “Your father gives you say in who will be your husband?”
“My father wants me to be happily wed.” That was perhaps a mild lie, but it seemed necessary to bend the truth a little. Sir Strahan was a clever man, but something about him drew the muscles of her back into a knot.
“What kind of man would you have?” he asked, keeping his voice low so that Tarren, who was telling the other servants how to lay out the sheets to dry, would not overhear his words.
Morgana arched a fine dark brow and said, “A man who does not talk too much, a man who would not treat me like a servant, and a man who would not bother me with silly gossips.”
His lips thinned into a smile that caused fear to settle in her throat. “I think m’lady that what you need is a husband who would tame your wild spirit.”
The knot in the small of her back tightened still further.
“A man who would use your powers for the benefit of his castle and king, a man who would enjoy your beauty and teach you how to use your sharp tongue to his advantage.” He leaned forward to touch her then, one long finger tracing the slope of her cheek to linger at the corner of her mouth. His gaze, narrowing, moved even farther down to rest at the swell of her breasts. Though she was fully dressed, Morgana felt as naked as a newborn babe. “A man who would show you the art of loving … the secrets of passion.”
“I need no man, Sir Strahan,” she assured him, standing quickly, turning on her heel, and marching stiffly back to the kitchen while the sound of his mocking laughter followed her into the castle.
That very night, unable to sleep, she crept toward the kitchen, but as she rounded a corner, Morgana spied Sir Strahan in the hallway with Springan, a red-haired maid of sixteen who served Meredydd. The girl was pushed hard against the wall, her skirts aloft, and Strahan was pressing his body rigidly against hers. At first Morgana thought he was forcing himself upon her, and she wanted to call the guard, but the maid closed her eyes, her head lolled back, and her arms encircled Strahan’s neck. “Please, oh, please,” she murmured as they slid as one down the wall to the stone floor. Springan’s red curls fanned out around her head, and Strahan buried his face in her neck, one hand reaching beneath her skirt.
Morgana’s stomach roiled, and she started to step away, but not before Strahan, lowering himself over the maid, caught a glimpse of her. He smiled, and, as if he enjoyed knowing that Morgana was watching them, he bent to kiss Springan with renewed passion, and the maidservant moaned — in pain or in ecstasy, Morgana knew not which.
Her heart beating as fast as doves’ wings, Morgana stumbled along the hallway, racing to her bedchamber and wishing she had not spied the act of lovemaking. She knew how babies were conceived as well as how they were delivered — anyone living with the animals in the castle knew how they bred — but she’d never before witnessed the act of lovemaking between a man and a woman, and she had been disgusted by the display.
The next morning Sir Strahan sat at the table with Morgana, sharing a trencher of bread with her, and his eyes gleamed with devilment, though he spoke not a word about his display with Springan. Even when the maid appeared to clear the table and offered to polish his sword, Strahan did not look much at her or give her a smile. Indeed, it was as if she were no different from any other servant, though Springan’s eyes betrayed her. As she went about her chores, her gaze followed Sir Strahan, and the looks she cast Morgana were murderous.
Fool, Morgana had thought as Strahan and his men left the following morning.
When Springan’s bastard had arrived nine months later, the girl had refused to name the father, but Morgana knew the dark-eyed baby had been sired by Strahan of Hazelwood.
Now Morgana was to marry the cur. The thought was revolting, and she swore to herself that she’d find a way out of this betrothal. Her father had refused to listen to her arguments, and her mother, usually her ally, had stiffly informed her that it was well past time she was wed, that a cousin of the baron’s was certainly a good man, and that Garrick of Abergwynn himself had promised that Morgana would become the lady of a fine castle in the north, which he planned to give to Strahan upon their marriage. So it mattered not what Morgana wanted.
As for Springan’s two-year old, Morgana had held her tongue about the babe’s father. Springan was a good and loyal servant, and though she’d made a mistake with Strahan, she was not the first young maid to have her head turned by a handsome knight and thereafter bear his child.
But the thought of marrying Strahan was, in Morgana’s mind, a curse, as if God himself had decided she must be punished for her lack of devotion. “Leave me now,” she commanded Nellwyn, but the maid took no notice.
“’Twas Sir Daffyd ‘imself who told me to pack you things for your journey. I cannot disobey ‘im. I’ll only be a little while.” She folded some more of Morgana’s belongings and then, balancing the large bundles, left Morgana to her thoughts.
Morgana knelt beside the bed and hung her head. “Deliver me, Lord. Help me find a way to escape this fate. Do not tie me to a cruel man, and please protect all that is Tower Wenlock.” Her heart pounded with dread as she remembered Garrick’s words in the chapel. If she failed in her task, he would seek revenge against her home and family. Why, oh, why, had she taunted him? He was a harsh man, a powerful man, a man one did not defy.
“I will miss you, child,” Enit whispered as Morgana entered her grandmother’s chamber. Enit looked frailer than ever, her skin thin as parchment as she lay under a fur comforter.
“Aye, and I will miss you.” Morgana, her heart heavy, sat on the edge of the bed, taking the older woman’s hands in hers. Though bony and thin, Enit’s hands were still strong.
“Something is bothering you.”
“Aye.”
“What is it, Morgana?”
A chill of premonition caused gooseflesh to rise on her skin. “What if I fail, Grandmother? What if I cannot find the child of Maginnis? What if he is already dead?”
“You cannot change what has happened, but mayhap you can steer the course of the fates in a new direction.”
“I think not.”
Enit patted Morgana’s hands with the patience of the elderly. “Follow your heart, child.”
“My heart does not belong to Castle Abergwynn or to the baron and especially
not to Sir Strahan.”
Enit smiled, a small mysterious grin that twisted her thin lips. Her cloudy eyes seemed to sparkle again. “Your mother says you are to be his bride.”
“I’d rather die.”
To her surprise Enit chuckled softly, then began coughing. “Go, child,” she said, her body racked with a fit that was squeezing the life from her. “Your destiny lies to the north, with Maginnis.”
“Nay, I—”
“I have seen it,” Enit said softly as Morgana reached for a cup of water and honey and held it to her grandmother’s lips.
“You’ve seen what?”
Enit waved her favorite grandchild away. “Trust in your visions. Do what you must. If marriage to Strahan of Hazelwood is your destiny, you must accept it.”
“Never!” Morgana cried.
“Do not fret.” Enit patted Morgana’s hand. Her fingers were cool. “Marriage to Hazelwood is the only answer.”
Morgana’s insides turned to ice.
“God bless you, Morgana, and listen to the wind, for ’twill be your friend.”
Morgana crossed her arms churlishly over her chest and fought back her rising dread of the future. “The wind speaks not to me these days.”
“It will.”
Morgana wasn’t convinced. “If I fail in this task …?”
“Fear not. The fates are with you. When I see you next, your path will be clear, and I will help you…” Enit’s paper-thin eyelids lowered, and Morgana knew she might never see her grandmother alive again. She trembled inside for Enit with her sorcery, quick laughter, and soft touch. Enit had been Morgana’s best friend for all her seventeen years. She kissed the old woman’s forehead and offered a prayer that her grandmother not be taken just yet.
“Morgana?” Meredydd’s voice floated through the darkness. “’Tis time you were abed,” she said, entering the chamber. “You’re to leave early in the morning. Come on, off with you now.” She shooed Morgana out of Enit’s chamber and along the hallway, pausing only to kiss her firstborn lightly on the cheek at the doorway of the chamber belonging to Morgana and Glyn. “No pranks, now,” she said, glancing at the sentries who still guarded the chamber door, as Morgana’s father had insisted.
“Does Father think I will try to escape?” Morgana asked.
“He is only being careful.” Morgana stepped toward her bedchamber, but her mother’s fingers caught the sleeve of her tunic. “Maginnis brought some of the boy’s things and has placed them in your room.”
“But—”
“He knows that you have found others after touching their clothes or something they valued.” Meredydd’s face looked pale in the moving light from the sconces still burning in the hallway.
“Mother, I don’t know if I can—”
“Hush! You can and you will,” Meredydd said, sealing her lips firmly. “All these years you have been a willful, strong-minded child, and I have let you run free. But now ’tis time to become a woman — lady.”
“As well as a sorceress,” Morgana said sullenly. “Many’s the time you have told me to forsake my powers and—”
Meredydd’s fingers found the flesh of Morgana’s upper arm. “’Tis too late. Now use the powers God has granted you and help the baron find his son!” She released her grip and shook her head, her voice softening a little. “Oh, child, how you try my patience.” Sighing, she whispered, “Good night, Morgana. Sleep well.”
“But find the boy,” Morgana couldn’t help muttering under her breath.
“Above all else.” Grasping her tunic around her as if she felt a chill, Meredydd hurried along the hallway to her own chamber.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to find Logan, Morgana thought as she hastened into her room. She started when the heavy door clunked as it closed behind her. If she could conjure the boy up this very instant, she would do just that. But ’twas not as easy as casting a spell and making the child appear.
She kicked her boots against the wall. Glyn, sleeping peacefully, snorted at the sound, but didn’t wake up, as if she were indeed resting with the guiltless conscience of a saint. Perhaps she was more God-fearing than Morgana believed.
On the foot of Morgana’s bed lay a bundle of clothing and a toy, a chunk of wood whittled into the shape of a boat. Morgana ran her fingers over the tiny ship. So this little piece of yew had belonged to Maginnis’s lad. Oh, that she could reach him. Was it even possible? Well, why not try? She walked to the open window and felt the breath of the wind against her face. Closing her eyes, she held the smooth toy to her chest and forced her mind to be free. “Logan, please call to me,” she whispered, but she heard no response, nor did she see even a faint image. “Please,” she called again, knowing in her heart that her attempt was futile. Again she waited and again heard nothing.
Still clutching the toy, she knelt by her bed and sent up a small prayer before sliding between the linen sheets and closing her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep, for sleep would bring the morning, and too many worries spun round in her head. To calm herself, she absently rubbed the tiny ship’s bow. Finally she dozed, and the old, familiar sounds of Tower Wenlock — the mice scurrying through the rushes, the wind whispering through the inner bailey, the soft tread of sentries on the tower walls — soothed her into sleep.
How long she dozed, she knew not. The moon, hidden by thick clouds, cast only shadowy light through the window as she opened her eyes and heard the crying … a child’s frightened wail.
Morgana rose slowly. She heard Glyn’s even breathing and the rush of wind as it passed through the open window. In the distance an owl hooted softly, and the fragrance of lilacs from the garden swept into the bedchamber.
Grabbing for the dagger she no longer had, Morgana rose, the skin on the back of her neck prickling in fear. Oh, that she hadn’t lost her knife to Maginnis! As she stood, something tumbled to the floor with a sharp thunk. Morgana jumped before realizing that she’d knocked the toy ship into the rushes.
From the foot of the bed Wolf growled low in his throat, and Morgana froze. Who or what had disturbed her? She glanced around the chamber, but even in the dark, she could see that all was well. Glyn was snoring softly, sleeping with the peace of the self-righteous, and the door to the chamber was shut. Morgana’s boots were just where she’d cast them.
She stole to the window where cool wind caressed her face and blew her hair out of her eyes. From the sill she surveyed the darkened bailey, seeing the shifting shadows on the grass, reflections of thick clouds moving slowly across the moon. The sentries were posted, alert as they walked with the extra guards Maginnis had brought to the castle.
She felt his presence, knew that the baron was somewhere in the bailey. Did the man never sleep? Squinting, she stared into the darkened corners, trying to see her enemy — the man who had betrothed her to that snake Hazelwood.
She was about to turn back to bed when she heard the crying again. Soft. Filled with terror.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated only on the noise, hoping for a vision, for she suspected that the pitiful sound belonged to Maginnis’s son.
“Where are you?” Morgana whispered.
But the noise died to a pitiful sob, then faded.
“I can help. Please…”
The sound was gone and Morgana, her flesh chilled, opened her eyes to see an owl circling above the well. Perhaps she’d only heard the cry of a night bird stalking prey.
“God help me,” she prayed. “And be with the baron’s son.”
Garrick couldn’t sleep. Too much time had been wasted already, and the thought of spending hours doing nothing to find his boy grated on him.
This entire trip was a fool’s journey. Morgana would be more trouble than she was worth. As for her powers, Garrick had seen no evidence of them. In fact, what he had witnessed was a spoiled daughter who acted like a man, took no interest in womanly duties, and possessed the tongue of a harpy.
He kicked at t
he dirt in the inner bailey, relying on the poor moonlight to be his guide when he heard a night bird swooping down from the heavens. He glanced up, and his gaze was snagged by the figure of a woman in a high window of the tower. He had no doubt the woman was Morgana. Her skin was as pale as alabaster and her hair, long and flowing, caught in the breeze. His heart kicked.
Who was this woman? Enchantress? Witch? Sorceress? Or was she just a beautiful woman whom his cousin Strahan had tricked him into fetching for him?
He couldn’t help wondering, as he stared up at her in the moonlight, aware of her ethereal beauty, if he hadn’t been played for a fool.
Chapter Eight
“Damned tough skin,” Cook muttered, her fleshy arms straining at her task as she flayed an eel. A fire burned hot in the pit, and dried spices and iron pots hung from the ceiling. The eel was strung from a nail in the rafter, the slippery skin nearly pulled off, the innards cast aside.
“Well, m’lady, up early, ain’t ye?” Cook asked, exposing the few teeth she had left as she smiled over her shoulder at Morgana. A hefty woman who liked her own fare, Cook had always allowed her in the kitchen, perhaps because Morgana was quick with an arrow and oft brought in a fat pigeon or pheasant when other bowmen had failed. “Y’re soon off on a great adventure.” Cook chuckled, her great shoulders shaking, as she washed the meat clear with water, then chopped savory, thyme, marjoram, and parsley into the yolks of hard-cooked eggs. She glanced up from her work and scowled. “Tarren! Mind the fire now, will ye?” Clucking her tongue she took the long fish from its hook, laid it open on the scarred table, and stuffed her egg and herb concoction into the eel’s slit belly. “Well, we’ll be missin’ ye, m’lady” —she frowned at Wolf as he positioned himself at the door of the kitchen, ears pricked forward, his tongue licking his black lips— “though I won’t mind that beast stayin’ away from the fires!” With skilled hand she yanked the eel’s skin back onto its flesh and sewed the cavity closed. “Here, Tarren, it’s ready to roast. Mind ye don’t set the spit too low. I’ll not be servin’ the great lord burned fish!” With one eye on the younger woman as Tarren hoisted the eel over the fire, Cook wiped her hands, then glanced again at Morgana. “I’ve somethin’ for ye, m’lady.” She motioned to a drawer and took out a sack. “My best herbs, those that you won’t be findin’ at Abergwynn, I’ll wager, and old Berthilde stopped by with some candles, as she knows ye’ve a use for them.” The cloth sack smelled of tangy herbs and beeswax. “Ah, but we’ll be missin’ ye,” she added, smiling though her gaze shimmered a bit. “Curse the damned pepper,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “Gives a woman fits. ‘Ere ye go, now, take these with ye. Ye’ll be needin’ ‘em for findin’ the boy, unless I miss my guess.”