Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  A branch snapped beneath her boot, and he turned quickly, his hands moving swiftly to the hilt of his sword.

  “Nay, ’tis I!” she said quickly, emerging from the thicket. Just the sight of him brought hope to her breast. As her gaze rested on his broad shoulders, she knew that beneath his shirt, scars webbed his flesh. She’d touched those ribbons that had once caused him pain, kissed them with her lips. Now, as she stood staring at him, reminded of the passion that had burned between them, she blushed.

  His scowl deepened, but he let go of his sword. “You shouldn’t be creeping about—”

  “I heard the voice on the wind at dawn,” she said quickly, not wanting him to think she was a common wench hoping for another quick bedding. “There is trouble at Abergwynn,” she said, lifting her chin a fraction. “A traitor has taken over the castle.”

  His eyes narrowed a little. “The wind told you this? Did it also tell you who the traitor is?”

  “Aye.”

  He didn’t say a word, just crossed his large arms over his chest and waited, impatience flaring in his eyes.

  Her heart was thundering, her palms sweating. “The traitor is someone dear to you, someone you trust.”

  “There are many whom I—”

  “Strahan has betrayed you, Garrick,” Morgana rushed on. “He’s spilled blood at Abergwynn and wrested command of the castle from Ware.”

  “Strahan,” he said coldly, his stony, unbelieving glare cutting through her soul.

  “Aye.”

  “The very man whose heart you would gladly carve from his chest rather than marry.”

  “Nay, I—”

  He crossed the ground between them quickly, and steely fingers surrounded her wrist. “Do you take me for such a fool, Morgana? Did you think I would believe your silly story, that I would not see through your ruse to lull me into mistrusting my own kin?”

  “Blood has been spilled,” she said, her gaze clashing with his. She would not back down. In an instant she saw emotions surface in his eyes, emotions that seemed to echo her very own. Her throat grew tight, and she wished with all her heart that he would draw her into the safe circle of his arms and tell her that everything would be all right.

  Instead, he stared down at her suspiciously, as if he could read the guilt in her upturned face. “Go on,” he urged.

  “I heard screaming and cursing and saw blood discolor the stones of the great hall.”

  “Whose blood?”

  “I know not.”

  “Logan’s?”

  She stopped, trying to bring the vision back into sharp focus, but it was gone, and she could not retrieve more than the vague impression with which she’d been left. “The wind says he is safe, that I alone can find him.”

  Garrick snorted. “Your wind serves you well, Morgana.”

  She bit back a sharp response. If he wanted to be surly, so be it. She had only a message to give him. “The wind claims the boy is at home.”

  “At Abergwynn?” he scoffed. “The castle was searched from the highest battlements to the deepest well—”

  “He is in a dungeon with slick walls. Water drips from the ceiling. I … I have seen them!”

  “You have seen my son?” Garrick roared, his handsome features twisting into a mask of suspicion. “Now, after all this time, you have finally seen him? How convenient.”

  Morgana tossed her hair out of her eyes, determined to make him believe her. “His hair is light — a red-gold color that shines like the sun.”

  Garrick’s mouth compressed into a hard line.

  “He has freckles and his teeth are gapped, but his eyes are the color of the winter sky. He is small for his age but quick, and right now he is very, very scared!”

  “You have heard him described by the soldiers and the servants. Habren knows not when to hold her tongue.”

  “I swear to you on the lives of my family that I have seen your son. He is safe for now, but the wind says he is in danger and I am the one to save him.” The fingers around her wrist moved slowly, touching the pulse on the inside of her arm.

  “Your wind seems to talk only when you want something from me, Morgana. I think you control everyone and everything you touch.” He yanked her hard against him and forced her chin upward so that she could stare into the cold depths of his eyes. “I think you cast your spells and turn men against their brothers, all for your own amusement.”

  She attempted to ignore the warmth his fingers inspired. “I swear—”

  “So you’ve said.”

  Dear God, why wouldn’t he believe her? She yanked her hand free and stepped away from him. “If I am wrong, or if I have lied, you can punish me.”

  His lips curled. “Punish you? Has not your own father already banished you from Wenlock?”

  Her shoulders slumped a little at the horrid memory. Would that she could see her home again, but that was not to be.

  “So how am I to punish you? By hurting your father — taking away his keep? By bending you over my knee?”

  “You have already dealt out my punishment.”

  “By forcing you to marry Strahan?” he asked, his lips without blood. “You would go willingly to be his bride?”

  The thought was repulsive, but she had no choice. Not only Logan’s life but now Glyn’s and Cadell’s hung in the balance. “Aye,” she whispered, her insides growing as cold as the winter snow.

  “You will be a true and loyal wife?” he asked flatly, his eyes showing no emotion.

  In her mind’s eye she pictured Strahan, handsome but cruel, a wicked leer playing on his lips as he took Springan on the floor of Tower Wenlock. He lifted her skirts, lay with her, poured his seed into her, sired her child, and then cast her aside and treated her with as little respect as he gave the rest of the servants.

  “Well, witch?”

  Morgana’s stomach turned over, and she thought she might be sick. “Aye,” she whispered, accepting the death sentence of her spirit.

  “You’ll be faithful and obedient and never give him cause for grief?” The skin grew taut over his harsh features. His eyes were filled with a private torment, his jaw set in stone.

  “Aye, aye, aye! Did I not say it?” she fired back at him. “If this is what you want, Garrick of Abergwynn, lord and master, then so be it!” Tears threatened her eyes, but she held them bravely at bay. “I’ll not remember last night. I’ll pretend you didn’t … we didn’t … that it never happened, and I’ll be a faithful wife to that black-hearted Strahan, but I will never, never go to his bed without shame!”

  “Because of me.”

  “Because I despise him!”

  He hesitated, swallowing hard, and for a moment she thought he was weakening to her, that he would pull her into his arms and kiss her and promise to love her forever, to marry her, to die for her if necessary.

  “Tell me this is what you want, Garrick.”

  He ground his back teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. “Aye,” he said, forcing the word over his lips. “’Tis what I want. ’Tis best for all of us.”

  Morgana had no choice but to accept her fate. Though her knees threatened to buckle, she would not weaken before him. She managed to stand proud and accept her destiny. She could deal with anything, she told herself, if only her family and Garrick’s son were safe.

  Ware’s mount stumbled yet again. Though the mare was the best horse left in the stables, she was old, and the punishing gait was too much for the beast. The road was uneven and dark, and the animal tripped again. “On with you, nag!” Ware urged, but the huge horse heaved and shuddered, her lathered body glistening as dawn approached.

  “You must rest,” Cadell warned, drawing his own mount to a halt. “We cannot take a chance of losing our horses.”

  Angrily Ware pulled in on the reins, and the old bay immediately slowed to a walk. Cadell was right, he knew, but he couldn’t ignore the sense of urgency that screamed through his brain: Fast
er! Faster! There was no time to lose. Any extra minutes spent tarrying might mean the downfall of Garrick and Abergwynn. If only he’d thought to bring extra horses, even palfreys or courses or Clare’s spirited jennet, any horse that could be ridden when these mares became tired. But he’d been anxious and impatient to find Garrick and had grabbed only a few provisions and weapons to carry with him on his quest. The night ride had been grueling and dangerous, and his whole body ached. Yet he rode on. If only he could impart his iron will into his tired mare’s mind.

  Beyond the horses and riders, loping through the thicket, the wolf stayed with them, never too close, but always darting through the shadows of the trees just ahead. Ware found the cur disturbing but necessary. Three times already the beast had stopped, barked gruffly, and altered their course. Cadell had unerring faith in the wolf, but Ware wasn’t convinced that the beast wasn’t on the trail of a buck or a boar.

  “Wolf made it all the way to Abergwynn, didn’t he?” Cadell had said when Ware voiced his doubts. “He’ll find Morgana, all right. If you don’t believe me, we could put down a little wager, but be careful of gambling with me, my friend, for I am brother to the witch and sometimes I think that I, too, can see through a window to the future.”

  Ware had refused to bet and had scoffed at Cadell’s claim, but he continued following the wolf. What other choice was there? The wolf was following the very directions Will Farmer had given Garrick.

  “Come — there’s a clearing,” Cadell said, squinting into the rising mists of dawn. We can rest for a few hours, give the horses time to cool off and drink, then be off again.”

  “And in that time Strahan will be up and after Garrick,” Ware grumbled.

  Cadell glanced at Ware’s flagging horse, and Ware knew there was no point in arguing. The mare, if she kept up the gallop Ware demanded, would be dead by noon. Muttering under his breath, Ware slid from his saddle and led the old bay through the opening in the trees. The horse’s ears pricked, and she drank long from the stream that rushed through a thicket of oak and pine.

  Ware loosened the girth and breast straps and removed the saddle. His mare quickly found a patch of wet earth and rolled in the mud, grunting with pleasure, legs lashing the air.

  Cadell, once his horse was free of saddle and blanket, plopped down near the water’s edge and stared into the creek. “I don’t know how she does it,” he said, his expression perplexed as he watched the ripples. “But Morgana claims she looks into the water and sees what will be.”

  “You believe her?” Ware settled against the thick bark of a willow tree.

  “There is something to what she does, all right. I’ve felt the twinges myself.”

  Ware didn’t believe him. Cadell’s imagination ran away with him at times. But all in all, he was a good lad, and Ware was grateful for his company — visions or no visions.

  Finally, seeing nothing but stones, gravel, and fish in the stream, Cadell, too, propped himself against the tree.

  “You think Garrick’s near?” Cadell asked as he cut a length of willow branch and began stripping the new leaves from the supple ropelike stem.

  “Nay.” Ware glanced across the stream, where the wolf sat, ears cocked, staring toward the east. “I think our friend wouldn’t wait around if Morgana was nearby, and I’ll wager my best sword that she and Garrick are together.”

  “That won’t please Sir Strahan.” Cadell used the branch as a whip, slicing the air.

  “Nothing much does,” Ware said bitterly as he ran his tongue around his teeth. Some were still loose, though the blood had dried and the cuts on his face were healing. Clare had told him he’d bear a scar for the rest of his life and his nose would never again be straight, but he didn’t care. His looks mattered not. Getting even with that lying, double-crossing bastard of a cousin of his did. ’Twas all that did matter.

  He poured mead into two cups and drank heartily. His eyes felt heavy, and his muscles ached. Cadell was right; they all needed rest, though he doubted he could sleep. He yawned, then saw the wolf cock his head. The wild creature whined, paced quickly back and forth, then looked at Ware, as if to say, “Come on with you, man. We’ve got miles to travel before we rest.”

  “Soon,” Ware said, finishing his mead and wiping his sleeve over his mouth. He felt the warm liquid slosh as it hit his empty stomach. Cadell was already stretched out and snoring in the grass, the willow whip lying on the ground near him. Such a boy. Again Ware yawned and let his eyelids drift downward. He would rest a few minutes, he told himself, just long enough to ease the cramps from his tired muscles. Then they’d ride again. He began to doze.

  Wolf whined anxiously, but Ware couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes. “In a bit,” he muttered, drifting off and not seeing Wolf’s restlessness as he paced worriedly along the banks of the creek and growled low in his throat. With a sharp bark that barely touched Ware’s consciousness, the wolf, as if frightened of the very devil himself, snarled and dashed into the protective darkness of the woods.

  “Two men on horseback, m’lord,” the scout, Sir Quinn, reported. “’Tis Garrick’s brother, Ware, and the brother of that witch. The wolf’s with them as well.”

  Strahan grimaced. How did Ware and the boy sneak out of the castle? Lazy good-for-nothing guards! They would have to learn a lesson, as would Ware and Cadell — a lesson in obedience from the whip.

  “Their horses are nearly spent. They rest now, by the creek.” Quinn leered wickedly. “’Twould be easy to sneak up on them and slit their throats. They wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  “Nay.” Strahan rubbed the crick from his neck, and his horse moved beneath him. He didn’t like the idea of killing Ware, for, truth, be known, he liked the lad. As for Morgana’s brother, Cadell of Wenlock, heir to Daffyd, he could prove useful in the future. No, Strahan’s fight was with Garrick, and should the baron resist him, Strahan would be forced to take his life. Too many years and too many contests had he given up to his cousin, the worst of course being that while Strahan’s father had lost his lands to Osric McBrayne, the wealth of Garrick’s family had increased. Strahan, who had been groomed to become a great baron, had been deprived of his inheritance and forced to settle for becoming a mere knight who pledged his fealty to his cousin. On the day of the ceremony, when he had knelt before Garrick, a bad taste had filled Strahan’s mouth and he had barely been able to make the pledge. It had taken all of his willpower not to spit on the smooth leather of Garrick’s boots. And that vile taste was with him yet. He took pleasure in the thought that soon Garrick would have to kneel before him.

  Only one minor flaw marred his plan — a flaw as irritating as a dying fly in a bowl of broth: Strahan had been forced to ally himself with the very man who had robbed him of his birthright. But that didn’t matter now. He could live with his choice. Osric McBrayne, lord of Castle Hawarth, had approached Strahan two winters past. Destiny’s die had been cast. For Strahan wanted power almost as much as he wanted Hazelwood.

  “If you give me half the lands of Abergwynn and strip Maginnis of his power,” Osric had said, his old eyes gleaming in the firelight from the hearth at Castle Hawarth, “then you shall have your lands again and part of Abergwynn as well.”

  Strahan had at first laughed in the old man’s face. Why would he trust McBrayne? Hadn’t Osric brought him to Hawarth as a prisoner? But as the night wore on and Strahan drank more of McBrayne’s wine, it became evident that Osric was determined to increase his estates by acquiring the vast lands of Abergwynn. In truth, Hazelwood was a much smaller demesne, but it was home, and by his birthright, Strahan should rule there.

  Osric hated Garrick for the simple reason that Garrick had turned down Osric’s daughter, Rhosyn, for another woman. Her humiliation had been public, her disgrace made known throughout the kingdom.

  Old Osric had given Strahan the chance for which he’d been waiting. He knew that his power, once he defeated Garrick, would be great. For Morgana of We
nlock, the sorceress who talked to the wind, would be his bride. Since meeting her, he had wanted no other woman — at least for a wife. Yes, he’d found many who had pleasured him, but only Morgana of Wenlock would serve as his wife — and serve she would.

  Now, astride his horse, his loins began to ache. These days, when he took a wench to his bed, it was Morgana of Wenlock’s face he envisioned. The hands that stroked him, the tongue that slipped across his skin, belonged to Morgana — at least in his very fertile mind. Oh, he had plans for their wedding night, plans that caused him to grow hard and long, and he had to shift in the saddle and turn his attention to Sir Quinn, who was still prattling on about how easy it would be to kill Ware.

  “Mayhap he turned some of your men against you,” Quinn worried aloud, obviously concerned for his own Judas-like skin. “Even now Garrick may rule Abergwynn again.”

  “Even if Ware did manage to take Abergwynn again, he has no one to protect it, and soon McBrayne will storm the castle. Fear not, Abergwynn has fallen.” He felt a keen satisfaction at that thought. Soon he would be baron to the king himself, have a bride who could read the future so that he would be able to predict the downfall of his enemies — even old Osric McBrayne, the bastard. For eventually Strahan planned to seek his vengeance on McBrayne, though now he needed him as an ally. “We’ll follow Ware,” he said. “He can be of use to us.” A plan formed in his mind and he nearly laughed aloud. “If the boy has bested my men and it’s true that the gates of Abergwynn are closed to us, he will open them again. But we must lie back so that he’s unaware that he’s leading us to Garrick. Then our search will end and the battle will begin.”

  As they rode west, Morgana felt Luck’s huge muscles shiver. His ears pricked forward, and he snorted as if in fear. “We’ll be home soon,” she said, patting the stallion’s sleek shoulder, but she, too, felt the changes circulating in the currents of air swirling through the valley. The fates were stirring, and their search, which had gone on for days, had turned up naught.