Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  Well, that was just too bad. She’d agreed to help him find his son, and she couldn’t very well accomplish her duties by sitting on a stool at Abergwynn learning to read or spinning wool, or keeping an eye on the steward to see if he was taking his duties to heart. No, she had to find Garrick and risk his wrath in order to help him locate his boy.

  The thought occurred to her that not all of her intentions were honorable. For there was a selfish side of her that wanted to be with Garrick, that craved to be a part of the expedition, and she felt an unlikely maternal instinct that caused her great concern for Garrick’s boy.

  She could no longer lie to herself and had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that she wanted to spend more time with the man she’d so recently thought of as beast of Abergwynn, the man who she’d thought would bring death to her family, the man whose black heart all but beckoned to her.

  “Saints in heaven, you’re as foolish as Glyn,” she reproved herself, for she was pledged to another man. Her stomach soured at the thought of marrying Strahan, and she knew she would never willingly become his bride. Curse the fates that had brought her to Abergwynn, to Garrick, and now to this dark, unfriendly forest.

  The night was black. Only a few stars winked through the clouds, and the moon, a sliver of opalescent light, gave little illumination. But Morgana, driven by fear for Garrick’s life and by a will as strong as iron, followed the directions she’d heard from Will Farmer, and urged the horse forward.

  She pulled her cloak tightly around her to keep herself warm as fog seeped through the black trees and onto the road that wound through the woods. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, for she’d always been comfortable at night, and she used the North Star to judge direction.

  The undergrowth near the road rustled, and for a second Morgana feared she would be attacked by a marauding band of robbers. Her right hand tightened over the hilt of her dagger, but she saw no one and told herself that she’d heard a mouse or a rabbit scurrying away from the sharp eyes of an owl that was hooting softly in the distance.

  Luck galloped onward, his hoofbeats in rhythm with the cadence of her heart. Her fingers curled over the reins, and she fought off the ever-present cold, hoping that she would find Garrick before she met the band of thugs who had stolen his child.

  No more visions came to her that night, and she rode until she was exhausted and her mount weak. Convinced she had put as many miles as possible between herself and the farmer, she stopped at last and dismounted, leading the horse away from the road and into a thicket, where, after tethering the stallion in a meadow, she lay against the mossy bark of an ancient oak. Within minutes she was asleep. She didn’t wake up until well after dawn.

  Without even pausing to eat the dried meat she’d stolen from the kitchen, she climbed astride the horse again and headed east toward the mountains. By midafternoon she’d ridden alongside hilly fields of tall grass and wildflowers. She’d found evidence of a large group of horses traveling on the road, and she wondered if she’d nearly caught up with Garrick or had run into the robber band.

  An icy hand gripped her heart at the thought of what might become of her should she be captured by outlaws. The sight of Will Farmer’s black-and-blue face and broken teeth filled her mind. She’d considered the possibility of becoming a prisoner of the thugs before, and she’d told herself she would escape by her wits, her magic, and her skill with weapons, all of which would surprise most men. However, now that her horse had turned toward the mountains and the gloom of the forest that grew on the banks of the creek, her worries intensified. The damp smell of wet earth filled her nostrils, and fog settled in the valley near the creek. Mist gathered along the banks and seemed to catch in the fronds of ferns and cling to the mossy trunks of older trees. Will had only been beaten — the men had had no use for his body — but there was a chance that the thugs would try to force themselves upon her. What good would all her spells and chants do then? She’d heard stories of men with voracious appetites and cruel hands …

  Morgana felt a fear unlike any other she’d experienced in all her seventeen years. She wished she could talk to her grandmother and that Enit’s wise words would guide her, then shoved the thought aside when she remembered her grandmother’s prediction that she would marry Strahan. Shivering, she urged the horse forward.

  As dusk settled and the forest grew darker around her, she gripped her dagger more firmly and rode onward. Tonight there was moonlight to guide her. Tonight she would find Garrick.

  Or come across the robbers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What do you mean, she’s gone?” Strahan thundered, his fist crashing into the table. Silver rattled, and wine from the half- filled cups sloshed onto the old stained planks. The hounds growled, startled from their naps, and Ware bristled a bit as he stared at his cousin. After all, he hadn’t made up the story; he’d just passed on the news of Morgana’s disappearance.

  To hide his embarrassment, Ware propped one foot against the bench and shrugged a shoulder, as if what the witch did wasn’t all that important. “The servants have searched everywhere. Morgana of Wenlock is not at Abergwynn.”

  “Holy Christ, Ware, she didn’t just walk out of here!” Strahan swore roundly as he shoved his chair away from the table. His face was knotted with anxiety, and his boots were restless against the rushes as he began to pace. A page, who had heard only part of the conversation, scurried down the hall, and several knights, drinking and tossing dice near the hearth, paused for a second before turning their attention back to their game.

  Strahan’s jaw slid to the side. “She probably just went riding — that’s it.”

  “Her horse isn’t missing. In fact, none of the horses are unaccounted for.”

  “What about that bloody wolf of hers?”

  “Frantic,” Ware admitted, feeling a fool. Morgana had duped him, pure and simple. “The cur was in her room and whined and scratched at the door. When we let him out an hour ago, the damned beast bolted across the bailey, trying like the devil to get out. The stable boy caught him and it was all Roy could do to restrain him. The animal nearly bit the boy’s hand off.”

  Strahan squeezed his eyes shut, his patience wearing thin. “Bloody damn.” His jaw ticked anxiously. “I can’t believe that she was kidnapped. I have enough trouble thinking that Logan and Jocelyn were snatched away from our guards, but Morgana, too?” He snorted in disbelief and disgust, then reached for his mazer of wine and, finding it empty, snapped his fingers and pointed at the cup. A second later a white-faced page grabbed the cup from the table and hurried off toward the kitchen.

  “I doubt she was taken,” Ware admitted. He didn’t want to tell Strahan about his conversation with Morgana, but couldn’t lie. So he explained about her request to leave and watched Strahan’s emotions play across his chiseled face. At first anxious for Morgana’ safety, his expression changed with the color that rode high on his cheeks. His muscles coiled, and he suddenly seemed primitive and savage, all signs of his English civility stripped away. There had always been rivalry between Strahan and Garrick, a rivalry that had worsened when Strahan’s family lost Castle Hazelwood to McBrayne and Strahan had to bow to Garrick, a man he’d always considered his equal. The situation with Morgana only made things worse, for it was obvious to everyone in the castle that Garrick was attracted to the witch and quite possibly Morgana of Wenlock felt the same way toward the baron. Once again, Strahan came in a short second to his cousin.

  Ware, too, understood Morgana’s allure. Didn’t he want her attention? “My guess is she took off with the farmer — either paid to hide her or deceived him as well.”

  “Bah! The girl is no fool! Why would she chance defying Garrick?” Strahan demanded.

  “She is … stubborn.”

  “Or in love?” Strahan asked, the question catching Ware off guard.

  “That I couldn’t say,” he lied, though he, like anyone with eyes at Abergwynn, could guess at the silent pas
sion in the witch’s eyes as she glanced at Garrick. He flushed scarlet and buried his nose in his near-empty cup.

  “Don’t lie to me, Ware,” Strahan said in a voice that was low and angry. “Everyone in this damned castle pretends not to notice what is happening between Garrick and Morgana. Aye, even I tried to tell myself I was seeing things that weren’t there, but I was deceiving myself.” He cursed softly under his breath and shoved his dark hair from his eyes. Until that moment Ware wouldn’t have thought Strahan capable of caring about anyone but himself, but he’d been wrong. Apparently Strahan was very much taken with his bride to be.

  There was a rustle behind the curtains, and Springan, Morgana’s woman servant, appeared with a tray and two fresh cups of wine. Ware hadn’t heard her approach and wondered if she’d lingered on the other side of the curtains, listening to their conversation. “Habren thought you might want these, m’lord. The page said you were thirsty.” She smiled at Ware and placed the cups on the table. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, and Ware wondered if she’d been holding back tears. But why?

  Strahan glanced in her direction, and his thin lips turned down, as if she’d done something to displease him. A shaft of agony cut across her features, but she quickly looked away. “Is — is there anything else?” she asked of Ware.

  “This is fine.”

  “Be off with you, woman,” Strahan ordered, and a spark of anger flared in the girl’s eyes. Her fingers tightened around the rim of the tray. She turned, as if to do Strahan’s bidding, but Ware wasn’t finished.

  “You know that Lady Morgana is missing?”

  “Aye,” Springan lifted her small chin in a mimicry of regal defiance as she turned back to face him again. Her gaze swept to Strahan and landed for a blistering second before cooling as she spoke to Ware. “I reported her absence to Lady Clare.”

  “Have you any idea where she might have gone?”

  One of her elegant eyebrows arched maliciously, as if she were savoring the conversation. “The lady told me nothing. But she would not leave her beast unless she was taken against her will … or unless she was in a hurry.”

  “You think she might have been kidnaped from Abergwynn?”

  Again a hot, furtive glance at Strahan. “I think Lady Morgana defied you as well as Lord Garrick and then escaped Abergwynn, either to return to Wenlock or … to follow her heart.” Her fingers worked nervously around the edge of the tray, and she shot Strahan a biting, scornful glance. “I think Lady Morgana left to search out the baron, as she was afraid for his safety.”

  Strahan sneered, “You think she’s in love with him.”

  “What I think, m’lord, is not important,” Springan said through clenched teeth before whirling around and marching stiffly out of the great hall.

  “Bloody wench,” Strahan muttered. He took a huge gulp of wine and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “She knows how to service a man well, but she can’t stop using her tongue as a damned whip.” His eyebrows were knotted as he studied the hallway where Springan had disappeared. “If she were my servant, I’d beat her within an inch of her life.”

  Ware’s stomach turned as he pictured Strahan, leather whip raised, sweat beading his brow while Springan lay across a bed, biting her lip to keep from screaming, the snowy white skin of her back marred by ugly red welts. “She was only speaking her mind.”

  “She’s a servant, Ware; she has no mind. Besides, she beds any man who’ll have her. For a kind smile a man can do what he will. She’ll lift her skirts and spread her legs, or if you say just the right words — whisper some ridiculous flattery — she’ll use her tongue to … well, to do whatever you have in mind.” He was looking at Ware strangely, as if the thought of bedding Springan was as appealing as watching her writhe in pain from a beating. “So don’t worry about Springan. That little whore can take care of herself.”

  “Servants are never beaten at Abergwynn,” Ware reminded him.

  “Unless Garrick thinks they might be hiding his son.”

  “The guards who were in charge of Logan—”

  Strahan waved off Ware’s excuses. “They lived. Now what’re you going to do about Morgana?”

  Ware felt too heavy a burden resting on his young shoulders. “There is nothing we can do. Garrick told us to stay here and protect Abergwynn. That’s what has to be done.” He drained his own glass as if his decision were final.

  “You are gutless.” Strahan smirked. “I always thought so.”

  “Gutless?” The word cut deep. Ware flattened his lips against his teeth at the insult. Strahan would not have spoken so bluntly if Garrick had been present.

  “Aye. You’re a coward, Ware. Afraid of battle. You let Garrick make all your decisions for you, and because of that, you’re soft — the timid younger brother being bullied by Lord Garrick. What does it get you? Nothing.”

  Ware drew in his breath to stem the anger that ran hot and wild through his blood. Never before had he wanted to take a man by the throat and slam him against the wall. Strahan was talking nonsense, though in truth he was voicing all the self-doubts that Ware fought each and every day. Hadn’t he just concluded that Strahan wouldn’t be so bold if only Garrick were here? Well, Garrick wasn’t here, and Ware was in charge. It was time Strahan understood that very important bit of information.

  But Strahan wasn’t finished. His thin lips curled in a display of contempt. “I see you don’t believe me. Well, let me prove it to you. Why do you think Garrick insisted that I stay at Abergwynn? I’m his best and strongest knight, and he knew that I was needed here to watch over you. To protect Abergwynn.”

  Ware’s throat worked. “I don’t believe—”

  “Of course you do. Contrary to what Garrick might think, you’re not stupid—”

  “Stop it, Strahan!” Ware yelled, causing the men who were playing dice to glance up. Near the stables, the hounds growled. Ware pointed a finger at his cousin. “We’re going to stay here as Garrick told us—”

  “Listen to me, Ware!” Strahan took a step forward. “To Garrick you’re just a snot-nosed lad who needs looking after. Lucky me, I get to do the honors!” Strahan glanced at a few of the men playing dice in the hallway. “Well, I’ll not sit here while Morgana is out in the wilderness alone. I’m not going to stay here and play the fool while Garrick goes about seducing her.” He started for the door.

  “But you can’t—” Ware said to Strahan’s back.

  “Don’t you see, boy? My honor is at stake here!” Strahan muttered harshly before turning to face Ware again. His nostrils flared in fury, his lips pulled hard against his teeth. “I can’t take a chance that she wasn’t abducted, and I have to find out for myself if she’s gone to meet Garrick. If she has … if they are lovers…” His eyes gleamed with a hatred so intense that Ware felt a shiver climb up his spine.

  Instinctively, Ware drew his sword. Furious at Strahan’s disloyalty, he growled, “You will not leave the castle. I won’t allow it! Garrick left me in charge, and both my honor and his are at stake.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Strahan snapped his fingers, and three of the knights, who had seemed so absorbed in their game, jumped lithely to their feet. Their hands were on the hilts of their weapons, and they stood ready to do battle. “Don’t make me do this,” Strahan warned Ware. “Don’t make me spill your blood.”

  But Ware’s pride had been battered too much for him to worry about his safety. He advanced on Strahan, and the knights unsheathed their swords.

  “Don’t,” Strahan said again, his face growing less harsh as he realized that Ware, in all his boyish foolishness, was quite prepared to die. “Don’t hurt him,” he ordered his men, “but make sure he doesn’t interfere with my plans.”

  Sir Joseph advanced. Huge, with a black beard and a scar beneath one eye so that his eyelid drooped a bit, he grinned at the smell of battle. One of his teeth was already missing and he didn’t look as if he worried about losing another.

&nb
sp; Ware shored up his coverage, and with indignation as his shield, he lunged at Joseph, ready to draw blood in defense of Abergwynn. He has never trusted Strahan, and, frustrated at being left behind by Garrick, he found the battle exhilarating. No one would ever dare call him a coward again. With his heavy sword he slashed wildly in the air, swiping at the huge knight’s arm. Blood sprayed the whitewashed walls, Joseph roared in pain, and from somewhere near the stairs a woman screamed and the dogs began to bark madly. Feet pounded the castle floor as Joseph jabbed back, only to have Ware move quickly, hack again with his weapon, and sidestep a blow. Whirling swiftly, Ware swung hard and hit the big knight’s sword with all the power in his sinewy body. Joseph’s blade flew from the dark knight’s hands and, clattering, skidded uselessly into the rushes. Ware whipped around, slashing the air and heading for the second knight, who was advancing as servants and soldiers entered the hall.

  “What the devil’s going on here?” the steward demanded.

  “For the love of Jesus!” Mertrice cried.

  “Lady Clare! Lady Clare!” Habren’s strong voice rose above the shouts of men and servants. “Holy Mother Mary, Sir Strahan, stop this nonsense!”

  A man possessed, Ware spun and whirled, jabbing his sword, forcing the second knight backward against the wall as yet another of Strahan’s men unsheathed his weapon and stepped forward, anxious for battle.

  “Saints preserve us and our wretched souls!” Habren cried as servants and knights, the friar, Cadell, Glyn, and Clare hurried into the room.