by Lisa Jackson
“The prisoners! Oh, saints in heaven, Sir Ware and—”
“Get to work, woman! Bring me pails and every free hand in the house, and pray that the clouds drop rain!”
Men and woman scrambled toward the source of the blaze. Carpenters, thatchers, huntsmen, and soldiers joined laundress and serving girls at the well. They carried pail after pail of water to the castle while Ware and Cadell ran for the stables in the outer bailey. Ware grabbed the animals in the first two stalls while Cadell crept ahead to the gate. Only one man remained standing guard at the portcullis, and Cadell, with the aid of Brodie’s sharp blade, quickly silenced him.
Mayhem prevailed in the inner bailey. Cadell and Ware mounted their sorry-looking horses. With a kick to his steed’s sides, Ware led the way. He heard a shout behind him, realized that a sentry upon the battlement had seen them. “Come on, you nag,” Ware said, spurring his little bay mare forward. They sky was dark, the wind cold, and the smell of rain was heavy in the air. Ware clung to the hack’s neck and wished she could gallop as fast as his destrier.
There were louder shouts from the castle, and Ware guessed that the blaze had been doused and that Strahan’s men were going to give chase. He glanced over his shoulder at Cadell and was rewarded with the boy’s audacious grin.
“When this is all over,” Cadell yelled over the wind that whistled against Ware’s ears, “you must tell me about Lady Fiona.”
Ware laughed and kicked his mare. Soon they would be in the woods, safely out of sight … Then he heard it — the thunder of hoofbeats. He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart froze, for a war party of no less than twenty was following them. The men rode fresh, strong destriers and coursers, and as the distance between them lessened with horrifying swiftness, Ware recognized some of Strahan’s strongest archers.
“Ride, Cadell!” Ware cried, “and don’t look back! Hiiya!” He slapped the reins against his own mount’s shoulders and prayed that he and Cadell could lose Strahan’s men in the woods.
They were close to Abergwynn and the wind was blowing from the north. Morgana smelled the air and watched the leaves of the saplings near the road, hoping the wind would turn. The north wind, her grandmother had taught her, was the wind of death. Dry and barren, blowing from regions of cold, the north wind blew hard, and Morgana shivered. The day had turned to night. Black clouds roiled overhead.
Even the horses knew they were near home. In the last hour, the pace of Garrick’s band had picked up. Horses snorted impatiently, and men, once tired and grumbling, now began to smile and talk among themselves. There was much talk of hot baths, women, and mead. They began to joke and laugh, but Mogana’s stomach was like a band of steel tightening with each step of her horse.
Would her visions prove true? Was there deception and betrayal at Abergwynn? And what of Logan? The poor child, where was he? She’d prayed and turned her face to the wind, hoping for some inkling of the future, but the voice had fallen silent again and she was left with a feeling of impending doom.
The road widened, and the horses thundered out of the woods and through the valley over which Abergwynn towered, the banner of blue and gold snapping in the wind. Garrick held up his hand and they reined in their horses to stare at Abergwynn. The castle stood proud, seemingly unharmed, and was far from the blackened ruins she’d seen in her dreams.
Garrick, from his war-horse next to her, glanced in her direction. “See you any visions?” he asked.
“Nay. But the wind is from the north.”
When he didn’t respond, she said, “’Tis a sign of death.”
He scowled. “So this danger you see — it still exists?”
Her fingers twisted around the reins. “I know only what I’ve told you before — that there will be death and bloodshed. And the feelings are strong — stronger, mayhap because of the wind.” She lifted her head and smelled the acrid scent of smoke drifting on the breeze.
“You once feared me.”
”Aye, but now I follow you,” she said, her heart open, though her visions were still terrifying. She would ride with Garrick wherever he took her.
“Think you that I shall bring death to Tower Wenlock?”
She swallowed. “Nay,” she said, thinking of Cadell, for all day long his image had been close to her, and several times she had tried to speak to him, to communicate with him over the miles. There was danger for everyone, but right now Cadell was in the gravest peril. She could feel it as she felt the mists rising from the sea to touch her skin.
Garrick frowned, his expression hard. “I must face Strahan alone,” he said. “’Twould not be safe for you. I’ll leave Sir Bradford with you.”
“But I must ride with you,” she protested, panic rising in her heart. Her visions came together in her mind, and she saw death for all whom she loved. “Garrick, please. The wind said I am to help you. I am to find your son. Do not leave me—”
“Enough, Morgana!” he commanded. “I’ll not have your blood on my hands. Stay here until I know ’tis safe in the castle.”
Fear gripped her guts, and she reached out to touch him. “This is a mistake, m’lord,” she begged. “Your very life may depend upon me.”
“As yours depends upon my decision.” He covered her hand with his in a moment of tenderness that squeezed her heart, and she knew that he expected never to see her again.
“Garrick, please,” she begged, tears suddenly brimming her eyes. “I cannot bear to leave you.”
“’Tis best.”
Her heart closed in upon itself. “You need me!”
“I need to know you are safe. I’ve already lost my wife, my son — everyone I’ve loved. I’ll not lose you by my own foolishness.”
“But I can be of help!” Tears streamed from her eyes.
Garrick wiped one of her teardrops from her cheek. His gaze lingered on her face for a mere second before he turned to Sir Bradford. “Stay with Morgana. Her life is in your hands. I’ll send for you both when I know the castle is secure.”
“Nay, Garrick, please!” Morgana cried, but she watched in agony as he yanked hard on the reins and the huge war-horse whirled and galloped through the lush fields surrounding Abergwynn, carrying Garrick and leading a small band of soldiers to their fate.
Chapter Twenty Three
Garrick rode through the open gates of Abergwynn with the sour taste of deception in his throat. No guards stopped them. Was Strahan really a traitor or was there another Judas in the midst? It mattered not. Whoever had stolen his son would curse the day he’d lured Logan away from the castle walls.
His tiny band entered the outer bailey, which was as silent as death. No stableboys. No carpenters. No washer-women. No workers of any kind. “Make ready for battle,” Garrick commanded as the gate to the inner bailey opened and Strahan, astride a huge white horse, appeared. An army of archers and swordsmen stood behind him. Arrows were drawn, aimed at Garrick’s heart. Some of the men were knights in whom he’d trusted. So Morgana was right. Her visions had proved true.
“Cousin. You returned,” Strahan said, and Garrick wanted to strangle him with his bare hands.
“Where is Ware?” Garrick demanded. “He’s in a command here.”
Strahan grinned. “I’m in command, Garrick. Abergwynn is mine. Your sister and your son are my prisoners and your brother is at this moment being hunted down after escaping.”
Garrick’s rage was deep and hot. He could barely remain astride his mount. “Logan is here?”
“Nay.”
“Where, then?”
“Safe.” Strahan’s gaze roved through Garrick’s small band of men. “Where is Morgana?”
“Safe.”
Strahan couldn’t help but smile. “So ’tis true. You’ve claimed her for yourself.”
“She wants not to be your bride,” Garrick said evenly, unsheathing his sword. “Unless you want your miserable life to end right now, I suggest you tell your men to put down thei
r weapons and tell me where I can find my son.”
Strahan snapped his fingers and, to Garrick’s horror, two soldiers opened the door of the great hall. On the top step, a guard holding one arm wrenched behind her back, stood Clare. Her back was arched in pain, and her long mahogany-colored hair was missing — shorn from her head. His pink scalp showed from small bloodied scabs, and Garrick had to swallow back the foul taste roiling up his throat.
“Clare,” he murmured, his heart heavy. He had brought this shame to her.
“Do not give in, Garrick,” Clare said. “Ware’s escaped and—” She sucked her breath between her teeth in a hiss as the guard twisted her arm harder. Tears streamed down her face from the pain, though she would not break down and sob. “He and Cadell will bring back forces. Do not back down, Garrick, for surely that would be our doom!”
“If you ever want to see your son alive again,” Strahan said, “I suggest that you sheathe your weapon. I’ve given orders that if I’m killed, the boy is to be tortured until he dies.”
Garrick’s insides shook, but he held his ground. “You lying bastard, I’ll kill you—”
“And kill the boy,” Strahan said flatly, “as well as Clare, and Ware, too, when we catch up to him. It’s only a matter of time.” His dark eyes delved deep into Garrick’s. “As for Morgana, I assure you that if you defy me, I will make her life with me so painful she will often wish for death.”
Garrick’s gut twisted.
“You see, cousin, you have no choice.”
“Oh, but I do, Strahan.” With that, he raised his sword high over his head. “I’ll make your last hours on earth a living hell if you don’t tell me now where the boy is.”
A bloodcurdling scream filled the hair, and Garrick turned to see Clare, blood flowing from a cut above her eye. The brutish guard leered and held the knife closer to her eye.
“Next time she’ll lose her sight,” Strahan said, and Garrick steeled himself to face the pain he’d brought upon his family.
He could not bring harm to those he loved. Already his pride had cost him too much. Slowly he lowered his weapon and inwardly cringed at the cruel satisfaction gleaming in Strahan’s dark eyes.
“I wish to see all the prisoners, including my son,” Garrick said. “Once I know that they’re truly alive and you’ve assured me of their safe passage to Wenlock, I will surrender the castle and all my lands to you.”
Strahan’s tongue flicked over his lips. “Why should I trust you?”
“When have I ever gone back on my word?”
“When you chose to lie with the woman your promised was to be my wife!” Strahan’s eyes glittered with hatred. “However, I’ll accept your terms if you tell me where the witch hides. ’Twill save my men the trouble of searching for her.”
“Morgana is to go free.”
“She will be my wife.”
“Never,” Garrick said.
Eyes narrowing in anticipation, Strahan reached for his sword and ordered, “Capture the witch and bring her to me. We’ll be married tonight!”
“I’ll see you dead first,” Garrick vowed hoarsely, praying for Clare’s safety as he kicked his horse forward to battle.
An arrow hissed through the air, landing square in his shoulder.
Clare screamed, but Garrick stayed upon his charger, the steed galloping the short distance to meet Strahan straight on. Garrick’s men spurred their horses behind him, but Strahan met him eagerly. Arrows sprayed the horses and men. Garrick felt the sting of wounds in his thighs and arms. Still he didn’t falter, intent on reaching the traitor.
“You bastard,” Garrick yelled, swinging his sword as their horses collided. Garrick brought his weapon down, striking Strahan’s mail with a clang. Strahan’s horse reared, and Strahan swung wildly, his blade hitting Garrick’s arm and throwing him off his horse.
Garrick hit the ground with a thud and tried to roll away as his destrier’s sharp hooves came downward. He felt as if his chest had caved in, and his breath left his body before blackness overcame him. “Morgana!” he cried, clinging to her memory as he lost consciousness.
The wind still blew from the north. Death surrounded her. Morgana stood deep within the forest, where Sir Bradford insisted they hide. Her thoughts were with Garrick, but she knew she couldn’t save him. She and Bradford had watched as the portcullis rattled shut. There was nothing to do but wait. Yet she felt a restlessness, an irritation that she couldn’t do anything to dispel.
The north wind touched her cheek, as frigid as the lands from whence it came. Sir Bradford was running a knife along the inside of his destrier’s front hoof, trying to dislodge a stone the horse had picked up. Luck was grazing, his saddle propped up against a tree.
The wind shifted slightly, rolling through the forest, touching leaves and branches, moving the fronds of the ferns.
Morgana.
She started, looked over her shoulder, but Sir Bradford was still working on the horse. Nay, he had heard nothing.
Morgana, you must seek out the boy.
“Logan,” she whispered, her heart hammering. “But where?’
To the north, where the sea is nearly a circle.
“What?” Sir Bradford asked, looking over his shoulder. “Y’re not makin’ any of that devil magic, now, are ye?”
“Not devil magic. I talk to the wind. It says I am to find Logan.”
“Not now, ye ain’t. Y’re staying right here with me.”
“But I must find the baron’s son.”
“What’s that, now?” He dropped his horse’s hoof and listened. Morgana could hear the noise, too. Men on horseback, shouting to each other. Wolf bristled and growled. Sir Bradford grabbed the hilt of his sword. “Be quiet, m’lady. Mayhap they are from Lord Garrick.”
But Morgana saw the furrow in his brow and the set of his jaw beneath his thin beard. “Strahan’s men,” she said, knowing as surely as if she could see into their faces that the riders brought death.
“You stay here. I’ll have a look.” Bradford stole through the underbrush while Morgana waited, her heart beating so loud she could barely hear the sounds of the forest. The minutes passed slowly, and she wondered how long she would have to sit beneath the trees not knowing if the riders were friend or foe.
“Who goes there?” Bradford’s voice boomed through the trees.
“’Tis I, Sir York,” a voice replied.
“Be ye faithful to Lord Garrick?”
“Of course, Bradford.”
“Ahh. All is well, then,” Bradford assured them, though Morgana felt fear in her heart. York had been left at Abergwynn. Surely Garrick would not send a soldier whose loyalty was in question.
“Have ye seen two riders?” York asked. “We’re looking for Sir Ware and the boy, Cadell, from Wenlock.”
Morgana’s heart nearly stopped beating.
“They’ve not been this way,” Bradford replied. “I’ve been here nearly three hours.”
“Then you’re of no use to us.”
“No use? What? York! Do you betray Lord Garrick?” Bradford asked. Then he let out a horrible scream and said no more.
Morgana froze where she stood, heart pounding.
“Come on. Let’s be off!” York commanded, and hoof beats once again echoed through the forest.
Please, God, let him live, Morgana silently prayed as she darted along a deer trail through the woods, searching for Sir Bradford. He was a big man, and soon she found him stretched out on the ground, his body unmoving, a bloody gash deep in his chest. Leaning over, she pressed her hand to his neck, hoping to feel a heartbeat. Sticky blood stained her fingers. His chest didn’t move, nor did any breath escape his lungs.
She felt anguish as she stared down at him. “May your soul rest in peace, Sir Bradford,” she said. Bending down, she closed his eyes, then forced herself to turn her thoughts to Cadell and Ware and the men who were chasing them. She ran through the brush and climbed astrid
e Luck’s broad back. Skirts bunched up over her legs, she dug her heels into the stallion’s sides and turned him toward the north, into the wind.
They’d eluded Strahan’s men, at least for the time being. Now, as Ware led his lathered courser through the forest, he followed the overgrown deer trails he’d traveled in his youth and motioned to Cadell to keep quiet. Branches struck him in the face, and twigs snapped beneath his feet, yet he plowed onward, toward the north, keeping the sea to his left. Swallowing back his fear, he silently prayed that the muted pounding of the surf on rocks would cover the sound of their movement.
His plan was simple. He intended to keep moving until nightfall, hoping that the soldiers behind him would give up their quest. Then he and Cadell would circle back, intercept Garrick, and join forces with him.
And what of Clare and Glyn? What of the servants who risked their neck to stand with you? His gut twisted, and he knew darker fear. “God be with them,” he silently prayed as he shoved a branch from his face.
The moon was rising, offering light that filtered through the forest and guided him onward through the ferns, brambles, and vines to the meadow overlooking the point whereon the first castle of Abergwynn had been started. Through the trees he stared past the field to the old fortress that had never been fully constructed. Blocks of stone and huge timbers were still stacked near the steep-sided motte that was now covered with bracken and grass. The base of a tower jutted upward into the night, and crumbling walls littered the ground. If he remembered from his youth, when he oft went exploring while he should have been hunting, underground rooms and passageways still existed wherein he and Cadell could hide.
He motioned to the boy, and when he was close enough, whispered into his ear. “We can stay here in the forest or hide in the ruins of that unfinished castle.”
Cadell’s eyes sparked with interest. “What think you?”
“The forest offers a means of escape, but ’tis impossible to hide here without fear of being seen. The ruins will hide us and our horses well, but if we are found, there will be no easy way out. We could be trapped.”