Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Tommy, is it?” Garrick asked, his stern face softening slightly as he thought of his own son. This mud-splattered urchin with the unruly hair was not so unlike Logan. Garrick’s throat grew thick, and the swift justice he wanted to inflict on the boy melted.

  “Aye, and it’s Tom I’m likin’ to be called,” the boy said with more than a trace of defiance.

  Morgana sent up a quiet prayer for the child.

  “Tom, then. This lady is Lady Morgana of Wenlock,” Garrick advised the boy.

  “The witch,” Tommy replied, unintimidated by the lord who balanced him on the shoulders of his huge horse.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Tommy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Ev’ybody says y’re out lookin’ for a witch to find your son.”

  Tommy’s mother moaned softly. Morgana thought the woman might faint into the arms of the butcher who, wearing his blood-spattered apron, stood behind her.

  “Do they, now?” Garrick’s jaw hardened, and his eyes narrowed on the boy. The silence in the town, interrupted only by the shuffling of the horses’ hooves and the occasional bark of a dog, was oppressive. Morgana wished she could do something. “Say they anything else?” Garrick asked.

  “That she drinks blood when the moon is full and eats live rats, and if she touches you at midnight—” Tommy stopped suddenly, catching a swift look from his mother.

  “Yes? What happens if she touches you at midnight?”

  “Your throat will close and you’ll swallow yer own tongue.”

  Garrick’s own throat clenched, and Morgana was afraid he might shake the child senseless. She knew the power of his hands, how cruel they could be. Instead, the great lord suppressed a smile. “I think you should apologize to the lady.”

  “But Mum says—”

  “Apologize,” Garrick ordered, and the boy, casting a glance at his frightened mother, suddenly understood his plight. He swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he mumbled, stealing a totally unrepentant glance at Morgana.

  “Please, Lord Garrick, he is only a child. Do him no harm,” the mother beseeched. She threw herself to her knees in front of Garrick’s war-horse. The steed stomped and tossed back his head.

  “Yea, and he’s a boy who needs to learn some manners,” Garrick replied, turning his attention back to the boy. “So Tommy, you are to come to the castle each day at dawn until I relieve you of your duties. You are to work until nightfall helping the grooms clean the stables. And your friends must come with you.”

  “But” —Tommy looked frantically at the now-vacant corner— “I have no friends.”

  “So it appears.” Garrick forced the urchin to stare straight into his harsh gaze. “But they were into this mischief as much as you were. Tell them I recognized them, and if Ralph, the smith’s son, and the thatcher’s daughter, Mary, and the others don’t show up with you, they’ll have a much harsher punishment to face the next day.”

  “But—” Tom whispered, his throat working at the thought of confronting his cohorts in crime.

  “Tell them.” With a severe scowl, he lifted the boy off the horse’s shoulders and, with powerful arms, dropped him softly onto the road. “And if you show disrespect to Lady Morgana in the future, I shall be forced to find a more severe punishment.”

  “He’ll be more than respectful.” Tommy’s mother wrapped her skinny arms around her son.

  “See that he is.” Garrick shoved his heels into his steed’s sides, and the horse moved forward, leading the double file of soldiers through the main street of the village. The townspeople were now quiet, but their eyes followed Morgana as she rode stiffly on Phantom. From the corner of her eye, she saw the looks cast her way: the wary, resentful stares sent her by mothers shooing their children inside the buildings lining the street; the raised eyebrows and smirks of the older boys; the appraising glances of the men with lopsided grins dominating ruddy complexions. Yea, she’d been branded by them all.

  The villagers thought her a witch and surely would alert the church officials. For the first time, Morgana knew fear. At Wenlock her powers and visions were known to the chaplain, as was her devotion to God. The chaplain often spoke of her visions as the light of God, though Friar Tobias seemed inclined to believe that finding the smith’s son and predicting a savage storm was not a gift from God but, more likely, pure luck.

  Here at Abergwynn, however, she would have to confront a new chaplain, and perhaps several monks as well, and convince them of her piety while all around, the townspeople, freeman, and servants in the castle would be looking to Morgana for amusement, or worse. Oh, cursed, cursed, visions that had brought her here!

  Through the town and past rolling fields of oats and wheat they rode. Morgana barely noticed the long stalks of grain bending before the wind, nor did she see the shimmering silky green waves of uncut hay nor the wildflowers heavy with blossoms along the roadside. No, she stared ahead to the rise in the land and the castle that stood thereon. Three times larger than Tower Wenlock, the fortress rose from the very cliffs on which it was mounted. Stone walls, thick enough to drive a cart atop, guarded the inner ward, and massive towers and battlements soared higher still, providing a falcon’s view of the surrounding lands.

  From the highest tower, atop a pole, a large blue and gold banner snapped in the breeze, proclaiming to all that this castle and the surrounding forests, fields, and towns all belonged to Lord Garrick Maginnis, baron of Abergwynn.

  “God help me,” she whispered.

  Chapter Ten

  “I cannot believe you would be so foolish!” Clare Maginnis whirled on her heel to face her brother, her palms turned toward the rafters of the great hall, while servants scurried into the room, preparing the tables for a feast to celebrate Garrick’s return. Ware, standing nearby, pretended no interest in the conversation. “You went all the way to Wenlock in Llanwynn in search of a … a…”

  “Sorceress.” Garrick was tired of his sister’s theatrics. Clare had, since childhood, known how to create drama in the most ordinary of situations, and this … well, she was reveling in what she considered her brother’s foolishness.

  “A sorceress,” she repeated. “And what, pray tell, do we need of a sorceress?”

  Garrick’s patience was as thin as lambskin. “For Logan,” he whispered harshly. “You know why I brought Morgana here.”

  “I only heard from Strahan,” she said, her eyes blazing. “By the time I heard the news, you were gone!”

  Garrick ignored her fury and asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. “There has been no word of Logan?”

  “None,” Clare admitted, glancing at her younger brother. Ware brushed a fleck of dirt from his boot and, frowning, wagged his head. “But this — this girl … she cannot hope to find Logan.” Clare, her anger and taste for drama spent, walked closer to Garrick and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. “Accept God’s will, Garrick. Know that Logan has joined his mother—”

  Garrick swept his sister’s fingers from his tunic and stepped quickly away from her. “He’s not dead, and I’ll hear no more of this talk. Morgana is here to help me find the boy. She is betrothed to Strahan.”

  Clare’s brows lifted a fraction. “To Strahan?” she repeated, though Garrick knew that his announcement came as no surprise to her. She rubbed her hands against her arms as if she felt cold, then motioned impatiently to a servant who had entered the great hall. The girl turned swiftly and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  “Aye, you know that Strahan asked for her hand and I agreed.”

  “Mmm.” Clare plucked absently at her robe and didn’t meet Garrick’s eyes. “Did you also agree to bed her?”

  Ware sucked in his breath, and Garrick’s patience snapped. With the speed of a striking snake, he crossed back to her again, towering over her, but Clare didn’t give an inch. She met his glower with a defiant glare of her own.

  Garrick growled, “I did not steal her virginity, si
ster, though, I see not why I have to defend my actions to you. Aye, she slept in my tent, next to me, so that I could prevent her escape, but—”

  “Escape? Was she a prisoner?”

  “God’s blood! Why should I explain these things to you?”

  “She came of her own will?”

  Garrick muttered a curse under his breath. Clare would be the bloody death of him. Always the questions, always the demands — oh, but if he could marry her off and send her to some remote edge of his lands! Her marriage had ended tragically, and would that he could find a new husband for her. “I have no time for arguments!” he thundered as Strahan approached. His cousin’s face was murderous, and Garrick knew in an instant that he, too, had heard the gossip surrounding Garrick’s journey home.

  “A word, m’lord?” Strahan asked curtly.

  Garrick motioned for Clare and his brother to leave, though both, bullheaded as they were, took their time about slipping through the curtains. Waving Strahan into a chair by the fire, he called to a page and ordered ale. His head began to pound, and he wondered, not for the first time, if Morgana of Wenlock was more anguish than she was worth. “Was there trouble while I was gone?”

  “Nothing serious. A lad of fourteen was caught hunting deer in the forest, and the steward was concerned about some missing sugar and accused the cook of being careless, but all else was well.” Strahan made an impatient movement with his hands, as if to clear the air of the petty issues. “As you’ve probably heard, there was no word of Logan.”

  “Aye.” Garrick’s black mood darkened. An ache settled into his heart, and he wondered if ever he would see his boy again. Was he, as everyone seemed to think, chasing a fool’s dream? Why could he not concede that his son was gone, delivered to God?

  Wearily he accepted a cup of ale from a spotty-faced page and let his dark thoughts swirl in his mind as he drained the mazer. Someone had betrayed him. Someone had taken the boy. Whether Logan was alive or dead, that traitor would be found out. And he would pray with his very life.

  “Garrick?”

  He glanced up at Strahan and noticed the thin white lines surrounding his cousin’s mouth. “You wish to speak of Morgana,” Garrick said, resting a heel on the hearth and letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones.

  “Aye.”

  “She will be your bride. Daffyd of Wenlock agreed, and I promised to pay a small dowry. As a wedding gift I’ll give you Castle Brynwydd and the lands thereabouts. I know ’tis not so grand as Hazelwood, but ’tis the best I can offer.”

  Strahan’s eyes clouded at the mention of his lost home. “You’re too generous.”

  “I think not. You’ll be paying a price yourself when you marry the witch.” He tried to make light of the subject, but his already black mood coupled with the thought of Morgana marrying Strahan only caused his spirits to sink still lower. What should he care whom the sorceress married, once she’d found Logan? She was nothing but trouble, that one, and though her beauty was disturbing, she would give a man little but grief.

  “I know how to handle a woman,” Strahan said, motioning for more ale. He seemed satisfied, his eyes gleaming, his smile crooked and dashing. “Morgana will be no different from the others. Should she displease me, I’ll teach her obedience.”

  Garrick’s fingers curled tightly over his cup. “You’ll not lay a hand on her, Strahan, no matter what she does.”

  Strahan’s nostrils flared a bit. “I have never struck a lady.”

  “Or wench?” Garrick asked.

  Strahan shrugged. “I remember not.”

  Strahan’s gaze was steady, and Garrick did not know him to lie. Yet, of late, Garrick had felt some doubts about his cousin. Strahan seemed tense and quick to anger. Ever since Logan’s disappearance the entire castle had been on edge, as if the inhabitants had adopted the gloomy anger that had surrounded Garrick himself.

  Strahan rubbed his jaw slowly. “There are rumors that Morgana slept in your tent.”

  “Aye. I did not want to return empty-handed.” He told Strahan about finding Morgana by the sea and of her attempts to outwit him. “I wanted to bring her safely here, and so she and her servant girl slept in my tent.”

  An unspoken question lingered in Strahan’s eyes, and Garrick said quietly, “Believe no gossip, Strahan. Morgana’s virtue was safe with me.”

  The tension drained out of Strahan’s shoulders, and he smiled again, showing a flash of white teeth that Garrick remembered from their younger, more carefree days when they would hunt and ride off to war together. A handsome and charming man, Strahan had no trouble winning the hearts of many ladies. His looks and sense of adventure appealed to most — though not to Morgana.

  “I trust you, cousin,” Strahan said, draining his cup before clasping Garrick’s hand firmly.

  “And I you.”

  “If anyone on earth can find Logan, ’tis Morgana.” Again he flashed his grin before releasing Garrick’s palm.

  For the first time in days, Garrick relaxed. A hot bath, a filling meal, and he would be ready to deal with Morgana again. At the fleeting image of her, he felt desire speed through his blood. Mayhap he should find a woman … but he knew instinctively no other would do. He closed his eyes and willed his lust away. He had no time for seeking pleasure of wenches or for silly fantasies about Morgana. There was simply no time to waste. He must find Logan and the traitor who had taken him.

  Morgana settled into the tub of hot water and couldn’t help sighing. After three days of riding, her back and legs were sore and every muscle in her body ached.

  “Is it not lovely here?” Springan asked, handing her a chuck of scented soap and gazing upon the guest chamber that was to be Morgana’s. Twice the size of the room she had shared with Glyn, this chamber was warmed by its own hearth. Several windows were cut into the whitewashed walls, and bright tapestries hung near the bed. The rushes on the floor smelled of lilacs and lavender, and the carved wooden bed was piled high with pillows and fur coverlets.

  “Aye, ’tis lovely,” Morgana agreed, though in her heart she would rather have been at Wenlock with her family. This grand room with its own antechamber for dressing lacked the cozy familiarity of her own home.

  She dressed with Springan’s help, stepping into a gown of crimson damask that buttoned to the neck with tiny pearls. The sleeves were gathered wide at the shoulder and tapered to thin bands at the wrist, and her hair was braided to the nape of her neck, where the black curls fell in wild abandon. Springan approached with a wimple, but Morgana waved it away.

  “But, m’lady—” Springan said.

  “I’m no longer my father’s daughter, obliged to do as he wishes.” She watched Springan put the wimple back on a shelf in the antechamber. In truth, her father hadn’t insisted upon the bloody wimple at Wenlock, and she wasn’t going to change her ways. “I’ll wear my hair as I choose, and no one will much care, as I am considered a witch by most.” Irritated by Springan’s awe of Abergwynn and her constant fussing, Morgana was anxious to get rid of the girl. “Go now. You must have other duties.”

  “Aye, but I promised Lady Meredydd that I would look after you.”

  “And you have. ’Tis time for you to get ready for the feast, for there is sure to be a celebration now that Garrick has returned. Besides, you probably have much to do to settle in yourself.”

  Springan argued no further, as she was eager to meet the other servants and find her own quarters.

  Garrick came for her. Grim-faced as usual he, too, had bathed, and the beard stubble that had sprouted from his jaw had disappeared. His surcoat, the color of a verdant forest, was thick and decorated with strips of leather, his mantle a rich sable brown.

  “’Tis time you met the household and took your place near Strahan,” he said when she opened the door.

  Her eyes met his, and for an instant she noticed a glimmer of something deeper than his usual disinterest in his silvery gaze. “Must I?”

>   He cocked a thick black brow. “You are not anxious to meet with your betrothed?”

  Morgana hesitated, but then decided that she’d best say what was on her mind. “I’ll not marry Strahan, Lord Garrick. Know this now: I’ll do what I can to find your son. Aye, I’ll stay here and learn the lessons that my father insists I have, but I’ll not marry anyone so vile as Strahan of Hazelwood.”

  “Vile? Strahan is my cousin, one of my finest knights.”

  “Then I despair for your army.”

  He rubbed a thumb beneath his jaw thoughtfully, and Morgana’s eyes were drawn to the seductive movement of the pad of his thumb scraping his skin. “Strahan has time and time again proved himself in battle — for Abergwynn and for England. He saved my life not once but twice and has demonstrated his allegiance to Edward. He has even offered to go with Longshanks to fight the Scots if need be, and as we both know, there’s always trouble brewing to the north.”

  “Aye, I have seen so.”

  “Ahh, the vision,” he said stepping close to her. “The vision wherein I strike down all that you love.” She trembled at his words, though his tone was soft. “They think I’ve lost my mind, you know. My servants and men. Even my family. They think I’m daft to have gone for you. Some believe that you are a witch and will bring a curse upon Castle Abergwynn. Still others consider me a fool, charmed by a beautiful woman who is leading me on a merry chase. Others claim your powers don’t exist at all, that you are a fraud—”

  “I’ve never claimed—”

  “And yet still others think you actually talk to God.”

  “But I have not—” she began to protest.

  He held up a hand to silence her. “Most of my people — yea, and even my own kin — think I should bury my son’s memory and accept that he is dead.” He paced between Morgana and the window, where he stared into the gloaming that crept across the forests and fields. The sky was a hue of deep purple, and the land beginning to lie in shadow. The tension in Garrick’s shoulders was a physical pain as he thought about his child. “But I care not what others think. And I cannot accept that Logan’s dead.” His fingers curved over the stone sill of the window until his knuckles showed white with conviction. “For I believe in my heart that my son is alive. I do not believe in your powers, sorceress, for I’ve seen no evidence of your magic.” His brows drew down over his eyes. “But I will take the chance that you may have a gift, and I will suffer the humiliation of gossip by my men, and I will not give up until I know the answer. You,” he ordered, casting a look over his shoulder, “you will do what you have to do to help me.”