by Lisa Jackson
Strahan stood as she approached. His smile dazzling, his brown eyes gleaming as if with mischief, he took her hand, kissed it, and offered her a seat next to him. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he said, his voice soft and pleasant, before shooting his cousin a hard glance. But Garrick was already seating himself, as if he cared not about Strahan and his bride to be.
They drank of the wine set before them, and to Morgana’s ultimate humiliation, Garrick announced to all the others in the great hall that she and Strahan were to be wed.
Though she forced a smile, her innards withered and she visibly cringed. Strahan grinned broadly and leaned close to talk to her as a trumpet sounded and the first course was carried in on silver platters: boiled mutton served with a pudding and spiced sauce, a pike stuffed with almonds, pheasants, and a baked custard in pastry. Strahan was a gentlemen, sharing his trencher and cutting the meat before offering her the choicest morsels, but Morgana could barely swallow.
She suspected that beneath his manners and courtly charm, Strahan’s heart beat as black as a raven’s wing. There was no gentleness about him, only an honored manner that hid the cruelty in his soul. She closed her eyes, sending up a prayer for divine intervention, hoping that God would see fit to untie the knot of the matrimonial noose Lord Garrick had strung about her neck.
“A prayer, m’lady?” Strahan asked, his thin lips twisting in amusement. He knifed a joint of pheasant and wiped his fingers on his beard.
“Of thanks,” she lied, hoping God wouldn’t strike her dead for lying just yet.
“So you are pleased by my offer of marriage?”
“Pleased?” she repeated, then decided the truth might be the best measure. Strahan was a prideful man. Perhaps he was vain enough to think that any woman would want him, including her. There was a chance that, knowing her feelings, he would decide to call off the wedding. “Nay, I’m not pleased.”
Slowly he licked the edge of his knife, and she wondered if he might cut his tongue. “Many woman would kiss the ground should they be chosen to be my bride.”
“I am not many.”
“Aye. And that is why I want you for my wife. Because you are different, Morgana of Wenlock.” Sheathing his blade deliberately, he turned to look her full in the face. “You have nothing to fear, little one. I will see to all your wants as well as your needs.” He touched her lightly on the arm, and she tensed, forcing herself not to recoil from him.
“I do not want to be wed,” she said flatly, though over the noise of the minstrels’ songs, clattering tableware, and conversation, no one but Strahan heard her.
The ghost of annoyance crossed his handsome features, but he quickly locked the phantom away. “You will be happy, Morgana. I will see to it.”
Morgana started to argue, but the murderous look he sent her caused her heart to freeze, and she forced her traitorous tongue to be still. She had no idea why Strahan wanted her to be his wife, she had not a large dowry, nor would she make a great lady. Yea, she could learn the art of running a household, but she knew that her skills were more suited to becoming a knight or a huntsman — hardly qualities a man would want for a bride.
Or a spy, she thought dismally as she remembered her escape from Tower Wenlock and her father’s punishment. But Strahan would have no use for a traitor — or would he? She swallowed a thick chunk of pheasant and nearly choked.
To avoid the worrisome turn of her thoughts, she tried to listen to the songs and watch the jugglers and acrobats as they performed, but the knowledge that Strahan was there, so close, nearly touching her, caused her to be anxious.
Once, while trying to force the food past her lips, Morgana looked up and caught Springan peeking through the curtain. The maidservant’s face was pasty white, her eyes nearly black with ire as she glared at Strahan and Morgana. Then, upon meeting Morgana’s gaze, her expression again became pleasant and she quickly disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Morgana to wonder if she had imagined the hatred glowing in the servant girl’s eyes.
Somehow, while the musicians and poets entertained, Morgana managed to pick her way through the meal and reply when spoken to. The festivities continued, but she was able, by pleading excessive weariness, to break away from Strahan and make her way back to her chamber. She nearly ran from the hall, aware that not only Strahan but also Garrick and his blasted family were watching her slip away from the loud room.
The rest of the household was still making merry, celebrating their lord’s safe return. Music and laughter and a few bawdy jokes trailed after her as she climbed the staircase. Morgana could stand the confines of this rich man’s castle no more. In her room she bolted her door, then tore off her fancy clothes, her mind coming up with a hundred ways of escape — all of them impossible. “Curse Abergwynn,” she muttered between her teeth as she dug through the wardrobe for her favorite black tunic and gratefully slipped it over her head.
Sheathing her dagger she waited, pacing the bedchamber anxiously until, as the hours passed and the moon rose higher in the sky, the noise from the great hall dwindled. She heard the footsteps pass by her door and imagined that they hesitated, but fortunately no one knocked or disturbed her. For that, at least, she was thankful. Eventually the castle was silent, and she assumed most of the guests and servants had at last fallen asleep.
Good. She could stand the confinement no longer. Hardly daring to breathe, she took Logan’s tiny tunic and opened her chamber door. Well-oiled hinges hardly let out a creak as she slipped through the openings and closed the oaken door behind her. Holding her breath, she crept along the corridor close to the shadowy walls, out of the glow of the rush lights and candles, and made her way down the steps and through the door to the inner bailey. She felt guilty about unlocking the door, but told herself she would be out for only a few minutes — long enough to breathe in the sea air, which would help her fight the feelings that she was to be held captive the rest of her life.
Outside, the moon was a fat crescent in the ink black night. Clouds drifted across the sky, obscuring the few stars that dared wink in the heavens. A breeze blew over the castle walls, smelling faintly of the brine of the sea as it played through the vines and fruit trees near the kitchen. Morgana moved quietly, not wanting to wake the dogs and horses that were kept in the outer bailey or disturb the sentries positioned on the thick walls of the castle.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled, and Morgana thought of the friend she’d left at Wenlock. Her heart ached to think that he was chained near the stables, tethered and never allowed to run free. Just like me, she thought, her skin prickling a bit as the wolf cried again.
Not far from the armory, a fishpond reflected a silver swath of moonlight as the breeze danced across the shimmering surface, sending ripples through the water. Morgana knelt on the bank of the pond, closing her eyes and feeling the sigh of the wind against her face.
She heard the gentle lap of the water, the flap of the wings of a night bird stalking prey, and far in the distance, again the muted cry of a wolf.
“Help me, Lord,” she prayed as she touched the neckline of Logan’s tunic. “Help me find the boy, Logan. Guide me to him and keep him safe,” she whispered into the breath of the wind, listening for the voice. “Please talk to me … let me know how to find Garrick’s son…”
Garrick stood in the shadow of the scullery, hidden by an empty cart, watching as the witch knelt, holding Logan’s tunic in her hands. He’d followed her down the stairs and into the moonlight, silently observing her as she fell to her knees by the pond, her black hair blowing free, her face turned toward the moon. Soft words caused her lips to move, and she closed her eyes, calling up some magic — or praying to a heathen god. Her fingers twisted in the folds of Logan’s tunic, and Garrick stayed in the shadows, his heart beating an unfamiliar rhythm as he observed her ritual.
He heard no chants. He saw no sacrifice. No blood was spilled, nor were any candles lit. Perhaps she talked to the w
ind, but she spoke as if in prayer. Indeed, had he stumbled upon her and known her not, he would have thought she was kneeling to worship.
From the distant hills he heard the cry of a wolf, and the hairs on the nape of his neck lifted one by one. One hound in the outer bailey offered a quick reply, but the wolf was silent, and aside from the creak of a bucket as it swung in the well and the incessant pounding of the sea against sand a hundred feet below, the night was quiet.
Morgana placed one hand in the water and moved it from side to side as if she could see into the pond’s clear depths. Then she slowly rose and, with a hasty glance over her shoulder, hurried along the thick stone walls of the inner bailey and past the blacksmith’s hut. From his position near the cart, Garrick watched her open the door of the stables and hurry inside. He looked up at the gatehouse where two sentries were posted, but neither they nor any of the other guards had noticed a mere slip of a girl moving about the castle as if she had every right to steal through the keep.
As he followed her, he thought of her foolishness at Tower Wenlock, the home she loved so dearly, and how easily she had escaped the fortress’s walls, letting down Wenlock’s defenses for the sake of a spell.
Here at Abergwynn, where she felt no such loyalty, she might prove dangerous to the entire castle’s safety. Garrick had considered posting a guard at her door, but he’d decided to treat her like a guest, not a prisoner. And in truth, he’d been mystified by her, wanting to see for himself how she would go about practicing the black arts. Aye, she was unlike any other woman he’d met, and yet he was unconvinced that she was possessed of magic and spells and power.
The stable door was still open a crack, and he slipped inside. The smell of horse dung and dust, dry straw and leather, sweat and urine, mingled in the air. A horse snorted and pawed against its tether as Garrick passed. Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. The sound of Morgana’s voice, soft as the murmur of leaves turning in the wind, floated toward him.
“You see, Phantom, I’ve not forgotten you,” she whispered, rubbing the mare’s neck fondly and burying her face in the horse’s coarse mane. The little mare nipped at her hand, and Morgana laughed quietly. “Ahh, you know me so well, don’t you? Well, here you go, taken right from the lord’s table, stolen from right beneath his nose, mind you.” She offered Phantom a bit of apple she’d hidden in her sleeve, and the mare’s soft lips swept the tasty prize from her palm.
“So now you’re a thief as well as a witch.” Garrick’s voice resonated in the darkness. Morgana nearly leapt from her own skin, and several horses snorted and neighed, tossing their heads and rolling eyes that suddenly showed white.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady while she stared into the darkness. The only light in the long building came from small, high windows that had not been shuttered and allowed fresh air and moonlight into the dusky interior. Still, she could not see his face or even his form, though from the sound of his voice she knew he was close.
“’Tis I who should be asking you why you are in the stables so late.”
“I could not sleep.”
“Neither could I.”
He was closer now, his voice nearer. The horse next to Phantom shifted and minced as a boot scraped the hard dirt floor. All at once he was standing next to her, pinning her between himself and the mare. Phantom tried to shift away, but because of the tether she could not. “Think you of escape, Morgana?” Garrick asked, and in the moon’s silver glow, seeping through the open door, she could see his chiseled features set in vexation as he stared down at her. He stood nearly a foot taller than she, but she refused to be intimidated by the sheer size of him.
“Escape the thick walls of Castle Abergwynn?” She almost laughed at his question. “Even I am not foolish enough to think I can steal away.” Ah, but she would leave this castle — aye, even this land — far behind her if she could. They both knew it, as they both knew there was no escape from a fortress so strong as this keep. Mayhap, should she live here for years, she would find a way to flee these high stone walls, but she couldn’t think in terms of months, let alone years. No, she could not escape, though living here as virtual prisoner would surely kill her before she could make plans to depart. “I was restless and came to check on my mare,” she lied.
“But you stopped at the pond.” Garrick had plucked a piece of straw from the manger and twirled it between thumb and first finger, and even in the darkness Morgana saw the motion.
“Aye, to see the moon’s reflection.”
“You had Logan’s tunic with you.”
Her heart dropped. He wanted so much, and if only she could tell him anything about his child, she would. “I tried to see his image in the water. I prayed God would show me how to find Logan.”
“And did you get an answer?” Garrick asked, dropping the straw.
“Nay, but sometimes God is long in replying. We must be patient.”
“I have been patient,” Garrick replied harshly, and a horse in the next enclosure began to snort. “Are you finished here, or are you planning to take your mare for a midnight ride?”
She knew that he was jesting, yet the thought of riding astride Phantom, her hair blowing free, the air rushing past her face, was a pleasant one. “Tomorrow, if you have the time, I would like to follow the trail where your son was last seen. If I am to find the boy, I must be able to go where he went, to walk in his shoes.
“He was but a child; he did not go where he pleased.”
“But neither was he a prisoner, and though he was always accompanied by his nurse or a guard, he had freedom.”
He heard the irony in her words. “You’re a guest, not a prisoner.”
“A guest?” she threw back at him. “Do you force all your guests to visit you and have them do your will by threatening their lives and the lives of their families?”
“I have not done so.”
“Did you not, in the chapel at Wenlock, vow that you would be the death of all who lived within the tower if I failed to find your son.”
He didn’t respond, but the leather of his boots creaked as he shifted his weight.
Morgana went boldly on, though her palms had begun to sweat and her heart was hammering with dread. “Well, Baron of Abergwynn, if I am to find the boy — and God have mercy on my soul and the souls of my family if I fail — I must be able to go where I will, to follow my heart, to listen to the wind. You say you want your boy back, and though you believe not in my powers, you expect me to make Logan appear to you. I will try to find him, but you must help me in my quest.”
“Anything—”
“Then grant me the freedom to go where I please.”
Garrick had no reason to deny her the request, except for a suspicion that she might escape him. But as he stared at her, he believed she would stay. She would never put the lives of her family in jeopardy, and though he would not hurt them if she failed, he allowed her to think him ruthless in order to compel her to do what he wanted. “I will let you have your freedom,” he said at length, “but you must be accompanied whenever you leave the castle — to ensure your safety as well as to make certain that you stay put.”
“I’ll not endanger my family.”
“I believe you,” he said, surprised at the admiration he felt for her bravery. It took courage and perhaps a little foolishness to stand up to him. Few had the nerve. But Morgana of Wenlock continued to amaze him. He held open the stable door and took her hand, guiding her through the shadows so that the sentries would not take notice. However, as they dashed along the walls of the keep and through the door near the kitchen, he was all too aware of this tiny woman with her warm hands and wide eyes. He doubted she was a sorceress; in truth, he thought her just the wayward, spoiled daughter of a rich man who had not the power to mold her into a proper woman. Daffyd, for all his loyalty, was not a strong man; his three headstrong children were proof enough of his weakness.
And yet Morgana was truly different from any woman he’d ever met. Outspoken to the point of being insubordinate, free-spirited, and delighting in the earth and nature, she seemed harmless and enchanting. But a witch? Nay. He could not see her practicing the black arts or weaving spells.
Because of her eccentricity, she was considered a sorceress by some, and Garrick didn’t doubt that she, too, thought she could talk to the wind or to any other force of nature. Had he not seen her chanting spells, lighting candles, and communing with the fates on that first curious night by the sea beneath the cliffs supporting Tower Wenlock? So surely she thought she possessed some powers.
Whether that was true or not remained to be seen.
Garrick, not wanting to be caught alone with her, was careful to sneak along the inner curve of the wall, avoiding the moonlight that pooled on the ground and cast the night in shades of pale gray. He felt a fool. He was master of this castle, and no one save the king himself could order him inside. Yet he felt, probably for Morgana’s sake, that he had to hide.
Perhaps it was his own impure thoughts that made him so careful. Since spying her at the edge of the pond, he’d felt desire sing through his blood, and this wanton lust that filled his mind with thoughts of lying with her would not disappear. Now, in the darkness, her hand in his as they tried to elude his own sentries, he felt a youthful excitement that he’d long ago forgotten.
They paused at the doorway, taking in shallow breaths, and when he turned to face her, the moon caught her white skin in its luminescent glow, and her eyes seemed rounder, deeper green, and filled with a wondrous innocence that caused his gut to twist. Before he could think twice, he gathered her into his arms, and his lips captured hers with a rising heat that frightened him more than any soldier raising a sword against him. He’d sworn on Astrid’s grave that he would never love again, vowed to live a life devoted to her memory.