by Lisa Jackson
“Mayhap I should pray instead,” Glyn said tightly, her complexion a greenish shade of white.
“There’ll be time for prayers later. Right now God would want us to work quickly so that the boy loses no more blood.”
Glyn groaned and looked sicker than before. “But there are bloodletters who believe that the loss of blood—”
“Enough,” Clare snapped. “Bloodletters are fools! Now do as I say.”
A sharp knock sounded on the door. It was flung open and Ware strode inside, his boyish face set and grim. “Garrick wishes to see Morgana,” he said crisply.
Clare wasn’t about to be bullied when she was giving a lesson. “She’ll be finished in about—”
“Now. It’s about Logan.”
Clare dropped the bandage, and all eyes in the room, including those of the wounded boy, were focused on Garrick’s younger brother. “Then he’s alive?” Clare asked.
“Garrick seems to think so. Some farmer has reported seeing the boy with Jocelyn.”
“Where?”
Morgana’s blood grew cold. A premonition as dark as midnight eclipsed her soul. The images were vague and shadowy, but she was sure that something was dreadfully wrong.
Ware was motioning toward the window. “To the east, near the mountains. Three or four days’ ride. Logan may have been captured by robbers.”
“Oh, dear God,” Clare whispered, and Morgana felt fear for a child she’d never set eyes upon. “On Rowley’s land?”
“Could be. Come,” he said and started for the door.
Morgana followed swiftly. They climbed the staircase to Garrick’s chamber and found a group of men inside. Garrick, Randolph, Strahan, and a thin man with lank gray hair were seated around the hearth. There was tension in the room, and distrust mingled with the smoke that rose from the fire. The stranger had bruises on his face and winced a little as he shifted on his chair.
Garrick’s gaze sought Morgana’s. His gray eyes were dark with a storm of emotions. “I thought you should hear Will Farmer’s story,” he said. “Will claims he saw Logan. Tell me if his tale is true.”
“But how would I know—” she began, then held her tongue. Obviously this was another of Garrick’s tests.
The farmer told of seeing a young boy and his nursemaid in the company of thugs, of being robbed, beaten, and left to die; and of returning to his farm and learning of the disappearance of Garrick’s son. He’d left his wife and five children to bring his news to Abergwynn himself.
“They robbed me of half a year’s earnings,” Will said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how me and the missus and the children will get on…” He cast a hopeful glance in Garrick’s direction.
The room grew silent, only the crackle of the fire disturbing the peace. Morgana felt the weight of every man’s gaze upon her. She knew Garrick expected her opinion.
“Well, witch,” he said, “what think you?”
Morgana swallowed hard; she had no choice but to say what she felt. “I don’t know if Will Farmer tells the truth, but I see no reason for him to travel so great a distance and risk angering you with a lie.”
“He could have been paid to tell this tale,” Garrick replied.
Morgana studied the farmer. The lines on his face had been drawn by long, honest hours of hard work in the elements. His hands were strong bony, and callused. The bruises on his cheeks and jaw were still green and swollen. “If he came here for money, then he is a fool, for certainly he would know the extent of your wrath,” she said, and the man didn’t flinch. Facing Garrick, she continued. “You know I’ve had no visions, but…” She glanced around, unsure of herself, not wanting everyone in the chamber to hear what she had to say. “May I speak with you alone?”
“I have no time. I’m riding soon. If you have something to say, woman, say it,” he snapped, his patience obviously worn as thin as the soles on the farmer’s boots.
She squared her shoulders. “Will Farmer is the one man in this castle that I trust.”
“The one man?” Strahan asked, obviously amused.
Morgana couldn’t back down now. Inching her chin up a little, she said, “I think there are many who would betray the baron.”
“At Abergwynn?” Strahan laughed, but Randolph did not. His bony face grew quite grim, his features even harsher, and the look he cast Morgana was murderous.
Ignoring the fear that settled like ice between her shoulder blades, Morgana plunged onward, addressing Garrick. “Many of your soldiers are Welshmen — Welshmen who have never been loyal to the king. As you’re Edward’s vassal, pledged to defend the English crown, the Welsh would quickly betray you should they find a leader.”
“You are Welsh,” he pointed out succinctly.
“Aye, but—”
“And you have some reason to hate me.”
She nodded. Lord, this wasn’t going as she’d hoped. Why did the man have to be so bullheaded? She knew he intended to leave the castle to search for his boy, and with that knowledge came fear — dank and smelling foul.
Garrick leaned back in his chair. “Yet you tell me of others who would deceive me — men I grew up with, men I have been to battle with, men who have saved me from more than one of death’s arrows?”
“’Tis not farfetched,” she said vehemently, and she felt the hatred in the room. It seemed to grow and pulse around her. How many of these very men would betray the man who trusted them with his life?
Garrick eyed her and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “What do you propose I do?”
“Just be careful, m’lord,” she said a trifle breathlessly, and their gazes touched briefly, intimately before Morgana looked away and Garrick, obsessed with the need to save his son, swung his gaze back to the farmer. “Why would robbers steal my son and send no one to demand ransom?”
Will gingerly touched his swollen jaw and shook his head. “I know not, m’lord. But unless I’m a blind man, your boy was with that band of ruffians.”
“These outlaws, have they a name?” Strahan asked, obviously disbelieving the stranger.
“We didn’t get ’round to introductions,” Will said through two broken teeth, “but my guess is they were Dryden’s men. They roam Nelson Rowley’s land, and some say they are actually rogue knights who pay homage to Osric McBrayne.”
“I’ve heard this tale,” Randolph interjected. “That Osric McBrayne hires men to torment Rowley in the hope that Rowley’s servants and villagers will someday turn against him and join McBrayne in his quest to control all that Rowley holds. Eventually, some think, if McBrayne can get enough power, he’ll start a war with you, Lord Garrick.”
“Is that so?” Garrick whispered. “Where did you encounter this band of thugs, Will Farmer?”
At that point the bruised man crooked his thumb toward the east and told of the road on which he was attacked. It ran along the base of the mountains, he said, and followed a stream only half a day’s ride from the village near his farm.
As she listened to Will’s directions, Morgana watched the firelight play upon the leather of Garrick’s boots and glint in red highlights in the dark strands of his hair. His gaze was centered on the glowing coals in the hearth, but clearly his thoughts were elsewhere. Her heart ached for him, and for once she longed to soothe him, to smooth the lines of worry from his brow, to tell him things would be fine. But she wasn’t one to lie, not even for Garrick’s peace of mind.
“We ride at once,” he said as he shoved back his chair. The farmer glanced up expectantly. “You, Will Farmer, will return to your home with an empty cart and full pockets. We’ll buy all you’ve brought here and give you a decent horse as well; that old nag of yours looks as if he’s ready to draw his last breath. I want you back at your home with your family, should I need to speak with you again.”
“Thank you, m’lord. You’re most generous—”
But Garrick didn’t have time for the man’s gratitude. “Strahan, tell the stewa
rd to pay Will and add a little extra for his long journey. However” —Garrick leaned closer to the farmer, his features harsh and angular— “if I find that you lied to me, if this is just a ruse, I swear on the life of my son that you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”
“I would not lie to you, m’lord,” Will said, his Adam’s apple bobbing indignantly.
Morgana believed him. The man was no liar, and yet she felt that parts of his story didn’t make much sense. Why no ransom? Why keep a child and his nurse if not for money? Were they planning to sell the boy — or get rid of him by some other means? Morgana shuddered and once again prayed that her visions would come and she would be able to help Garrick find his son.
The men exited, but Garrick took hold of the crook of Strahan’s arm. “You are to stay and guard the castle,” he said, and Strahan’s spine visibly stiffened.
“But why?”
“Because Ware is not strong enough.”
Strahan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He didn’t like being left behind on any war party. “I’m the best archer you’ve got, the best swordsmen. Why would you not want me at your side?”
“I need someone to take command of Abergwynn. My family is here, as is your bride. You’ll stay and protect—”
“But I’m going with you,” Morgana protested, cutting him off. “That’s why you brought me here. To find Logan.”
“He’s been found. There’s no point in putting your life in danger.” Garrick, seeing the protest forming on her lips, let go of his cousin and advanced on Morgana. “I’ll not have any Wenlock blood spilled over this. I made a promise to your father, and I intend to keep it.”
“But—”
Strahan’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “Do as the baron wishes,” he ordered.
“Make no mistake, Morgana,” Garrick said, his eyes blazing. “You are to stay here, take your lessons from Clare, and begin planning your wedding.” Behind him, resting a shoulder in the doorway, Strahan had the nerve to smile.
Morgana wanted to scream. She’d been cooped up in this castle for far too long and this was her chance to be free and to help bring the boy back to Abergwynn. The thought of preparing for a wedding to Strahan — oh, Mother Mary, her knees nearly buckled.
“You’ll be wed a fortnight from the day we return,” Garrick said.
She thought there was a flicker of sadness in his gaze, but it quickly disappeared and she wondered if her own foolish heart had tricked her into believing that he regretted her marriage to his cousin.
“What if you don’t find your son? What if I have a vision and know him to be somewhere else?”
Garrick’s cruel lips lifted at one corner. “Your visions come conveniently, don’t they, witch? For over a week you see nothing, but now, when a simple farmer swears he’s seen my boy, you’re jumping at shadows, seeing a traitor around every corner in this castle, thinking you’ll see a vision of my son’s whereabouts.” He touched her lightly, his fingers curling in one dark strand of her hair. “You know, Morgana of Wenlock, I don’t believe in your powers at all. I don’t think you’re a sorceress. I think the stories about you have been embellished over the years. Yea, perhaps you found a person, maybe even felt a storm brewing. But your witchcraft is a pitiful thing and probably doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t believe in witchcraft!” she cried, heat rising in her cheeks. What was he doing?
“Good. Neither do I. I was a fool to let Strahan talk me into bringing you here. If he wants to marry you, well enough, but I don’t need a woman muddying the waters while I ride to battle.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out the door. Strahan, after casting a bemused glance in her direction, followed Garrick, and Morgana was left fuming, her fists clenched in rage, in the middle of Garrick’s chamber. Blackheart! Fool! Beast of Abergwynn!
The vision came less than an hour later. Still angry, she stormed outside, talking to no one, not even bending down to pet Wolf between his ears. She was too furious. In the bailey she lifted her face, allowing the salty breeze to touch her skin and tangle her hair. Flint-colored clouds were beginning to gather, and the laundress, muttering beneath her breath, ran from the castle and began snatching the linens from the ground.
The farmer’s old nag pricked up his ears and whinnied, his dusty hide quivering in fear. Wolf began to pace restlessly around her skirts, a series of low growls rumbling in his throat.
“Shh,” Morgana said instinctively, but she, too, felt the change in temperature, the gathering of the storm. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she held herself and closed her eyes for only a second as the wind whipped her tunic close to her body. In that brief instant she saw death. Cold and black and shadowy, death was stalking. Who or what she could not tell. The vision was blurry and filled with vague images. Her insides froze as, within her mind, she observed a small hand — a child’s plump hand — reaching into water where golden silk lay under the ripples.
“Please, God,” she whispered, knowing the hand belonged to Garrick’s son, “let me see the boy.” She fell to her knees. “Tell me that he’s safe—” But as quickly as the vision had appeared, it vanished, and she blinked against the sunlight, trying to peek through the ominous clouds.
Desolate, she climbed to her feet. What good were her visions if she could not help the boy? If she could not ease Garrick’s troubled mind?
In the outer bailey the soldiers were gathering — Garrick’s war party. A wagon was loaded, the horses saddled, and weapons clanked over the jokes and laughter of men about to partake of an adventure. For as serious as their mission was, they were excited and eager to get on with it.
The first few drops of rain began to spatter the ground. Morgana turned toward the castle and saw him. Dressed in dark leather, impatience radiating from his every movement, Garrick strode across the inner bailey and toward the gate.
“Wait!” she cried, dashing across the grass, disregarding the drizzle that ran down her face and neck. “Please, Garrick, you must listen to me!” She didn’t care who saw her, and she ignored the stares of the carpenters and gardeners who gaped at her. She wanted to fling herself into Garrick’s arms and beg him to take her with him, to wrap her arms around him and hear the steadying beat of his heart, for she feared that the death was meant for him. She didn’t know how this vision fit with the first image she’d had of Garrick as the warrior from the north who would bring the downfall of Wenlock, she knew only that she cared for him, more deeply than she should, perhaps, and that she was sick with worry for his safety as well as for the safety of his child.
“What is it now?” he demanded harshly, though a ribbon of tenderness floated across his face.
“You must let me come with you. I — I saw something…” Her words were tumbling out too fast, and she was holding on to his sleeve, her wet face upturned to his.
Garrick’s gut knotted, and before he knew what he was doing one of his fists knotted in her hair. He nearly drew her head to his and kissed those passionate red lips, but before his lust took control of his mind, he restrained himself. “You had a vision.”
“Aye.”
“Now?” he asked skeptically. “After all this time?”
“I cannot control when it will happen.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he let loose the silken rope of her hair. “What did you see, witch?” he taunted, his mouth turning suddenly cruel. “Another vision of death?”
“Yea, and—”
“Whose death was it?”
“I’m not sure, m’lord,” she admitted, horrified that his gentleness had faded so quickly and been replaced by a scoffing mockery that glittered like hard gems in his gaze.
“Now you want to come with me.”
“Yea!”
“So that you can escape?”
She felt as if she’d been slapped, but she swallowed back her pride and clung to him. “Nay, Garrick, please. Listen. I want only what is
best for you and Logan. I could help. I can ride and hunt, and I’m as good as your men with a bow and arrow. Mayhap I’ll have another vision. One that’s clearer. One that will lead you to your son and will help you avoid a trap.”
His fingers surrounded her arm, and she felt the leashed strength in his grip, as if he wanted to crush her bones to dust. “You have been here a fortnight, Morgana. In all that time you have been nothing but grief to me,” he whispered harshly. “Now that I finally might find my boy, you want to ride with me and set all my men on edge.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“I don’t need a woman to take my mens’ minds off their duty. You stay here with Strahan. You’re of no use to me now.”
She stumbled backward as he shoved her aside, and she felt wounded to her very soul.
He strode swiftly to the outer bailey where his men waited. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, he mounted his steed, galloped to the head of the procession, and rode away, his small band of soldiers riding fast behind him.
Morgana wanted to crumple to the ground, but she felt the gaze of Strahan upon her, knew he was watching her every move. She stiffened her spine and marched back to the castle, past Strahan and Ware, and through the great door where Springan, her mouth a tight little bow, swept her a knowing look.
Trying to hold on to her pride, she hurried up the stairs, feeling a fool, and all the while Garrick’s taunting words floated on the wind behind her: You’re of no use to me now.
The words reverberated through her head like a chant, over and over, hurting her more each time she remembered them.
“Damn you, Garrick of Abergwynn,” she whispered, kicking at the rushes and plotting her escape.
Chapter Fifteen
“Fool,” Morgana muttered, but she couldn’t still the traitorous beating of her heart as she watched Garrick and the column of riders disappear into the forest. Even when he was out of sight, her heart thumped a trifle recklessly as she leaned against the smooth stones of the windowsill.
She was glad there was news of Logan, and she prayed that the boy was safe, but as for Garrick, she was furious with him. He’d left her with strict orders not to leave the castle, and she felt more like a prisoner than ever. As the last of the column disappeared into the copse of oak and pine, Morgana again felt a premonition of doom race up her spine. Her skin crawled, and for a second she saw Garrick’s death as surely as if an arrow had pierced his heart.