Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  Cadell hesitated and Ware heard the snap of a branch behind them. They glanced at each other and knew they had no choice. Quickly mounting, they kicked their horses and raced along the edge of the cliff and downward toward the ruins.

  Somewhere behind them a man shouted, and Ware’s heart nearly stopped beating. “Come on, come on!” he urged his tired courser. “Move, will you?”

  Cadell was near, his horse panting. The shouts followed them, and soon the army of men broke from the forest, huge looming shadows riding as fast as the wind. Down the hill toward the ruins Ware sped, holding his breath each time his nag stumbled, quietly cursing the rabbit holes and burrows in the uneven ground.

  “Halt!” a voice yelled.

  Ware kicked his horse.

  “Halt, I say. Damn you!”

  An arrow whizzed past his head, and Ware tucked his body low against the mare’s neck. “Run, you bloody mule, run!” he yelled, whipping the poor animal as it sped forward. Another arrow sliced through the air, nipping the horse’s flank before being deflected. “Bloody Christ!”

  “Ware!” Cadell screamed. “Christ, Ware—”

  Ware wheeled his horse around, and in an instant he saw Cadell, one arrow lodged in his shoulder, begin to fall from his mount. “Hang on.” He guided his horse close to Cadell’s and reached over to grab the boy. Cadell’s hands clawed at his arm, but as he yanked him from his mount, a hot pain sliced through his thighs. Still he held on as the mare raced along the edge of the cliff. Riders seemed to come from every direction — across the grassland, from the forest — huge men with quivers and crossbows at ready.

  “Holy Mother,” Ware swore as Cadell’s horse stumbled and fell. The boy swung free, all his weight on Ware. He let go of the reins, pulled Cadell with both hands, but the mare broke stride and Cadell lost his grip.

  “No!” Ware cried.

  The boy fell away from him, pulling him off the horse. Ware hit the ground with a thud and rolled toward the cliff. The shaft of the arrow in his thigh broke and drove the steel-tipped point even deeper into his leg. Ware ignored the pain. He reached forward, lunging toward Cadell.

  Cadell slid toward the edge, but caught his balance. Foolishly he stood up on unsteady legs. A final arrow pierced his chest, and he screamed in pain as he fell backward. His feet scrambled in the soft dirt, and suddenly he pitched over the embankment.

  “No!” Ware screamed, crawling rapidly toward the edge of the cliff. Cadell couldn’t die. He couldn’t! Not after all they’d been through.

  “Halt or die!” a voice commanded.

  Ware disregarded the warning and reached the edge. He stared down at the rocks and sea below, but nowhere did he see Cadell’s crumpled body. Hot tears streamed from his eyes and his fingers curled into tight fists in the wet earth. “Cadell!” he yelled, his body racked with sobs, the pain in his leg blistering.

  “He’s gone.”

  Ware looked over his shoulder to find a huntsman astride a big war-horse, his bow taut, an arrow pointed at the middle of Ware’s back. The man kicked his mount and moved steadily closer to Ware. “Do you wish to join him?”

  “I care not,” Ware snarled, spitting at the horse’s hooves.

  “Don’t! Strahan wants this one alive,” another rider called from the growing darkness.

  “Strahan be damned!” Ware scrambled to his feet, drew himself up straight, and boldly faced the men’s dark faces. His thigh burned, and his eyes were bright with defiance. “I’ll not ride with you.”

  “You have no choice.”

  A strange smile split Ware’s boyish face. “There are always choices,” he said, his chin tilting mutinously upward. “I’ll never bow to Strahan, nor will I be bound in his chains.”

  “Come, Ware—”

  “Give my brother my best and tell Strahan … I’ll meet him in hell!” He spun around and jumped. His body soared over the rocky surf below. Closing his eyes to the fear that froze his heart, he hurtled downward into the swirling darkness.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Morgana watched in horror as Cadell pitched into the blackness and over the cliff. “No!” she cried, but her voice was drowned by the rush of the wind, and all too soon Ware, too, leapt to his death. “God in heaven.”

  The men on horseback who surrounded the ridge did not see her hidden in the shadow of the forest. Tears streamed down her face, and she silently cursed the fates, cursed God, cursed Garrick, and cursed herself for the deaths of Ware and Cadell.

  In misery she sat down on the forest floor and felt Luck’s hot breath against the back of her neck. The horse nudged her head and nibbled at her hair, but Morgana took no comfort from the stallion. Even Wolf, who lay beside her and placed his heavy head in her lap, could not lift the weight on her heart. “’Tis my fault,” she said brokenly. “My pride brought me to this. My belief in voices and visions and thinking I was something I’m not.”

  With deep trepidation, she watched the soldiers mount and head south along the ridge above the sea. These were Strahan’s men, the very men who had killed kind Sir Bradford, and sent Cadell and Ware to their deaths. Sshe knew in her heart that Garrick had fallen into his cousin’s trap, too, by returning to Abergwynn. All because of her visions.

  Garrick was probably dead, and she would never see him again. Bitter tears streamed down her face, and she fought the urge to break down and sob. Instead, she watched the soldiers through the shimmer of her tears.

  Strahan’s murderous warriors soon gave up their search of the rocky bluff and remounted. They rode through the forest, and followed the western trail that wound away from her hiding place. Not that it mattered. There had been a time when all she’d wanted was her freedom, but now, after seeing Cadell’s death and Ware’s as well, she knew she would gladly marry Strahan if only her brother would live. She could bury her love for Garrick and accept her fate as Strahan’s bride if only she could see Cadell’s face again.

  Throwing herself face down on the ground, she cried until she had no more tears in her. Only then did she allow the dry sobs to rock her body. She buried her fingers in the damp earth and dug until her nails bled. “Help me. Help us all,” she said, not even realizing that she was praying.

  ’Tis you who must help, Morgana, the voice, rolling softly over the sea, whispered into her ear.

  “Go away!”

  You have not yet completed your quest.

  “And you are evil, aye, the voice of the very devil himself. No more will I trust in you!”

  You must find the boy of Abergwynn.

  Logan! Oh, Lord, where was the boy?

  Trust your heart, Morgana of Wenlock.

  “My heart has deceived me!” she screamed, stumbling to her feet. Blinded by tears she ran out of the woods and stood facing the sea and calling out to the dreadful voice. “You have deceived me! Cadell is dead! Ware is dead! Even now Garrick and Glyn and Clare might be dead! I have helped not!” She fell again to the earth and cried, great tears streaking her cheeks. The wind shifted, turning in the night, curling around her until the current flowed from the east, toward the sea. Morgana felt the change, the uplifting of the spirit that an easterly wind always brought. Yet she would not be swayed from her misery.

  “The wind from the east is your friend,” her grandmother had once told her, when Enit could still walk in the gardens of Wenlock. “It brings with it new hope and life. It is a powerful wind that comes from the point where the sun and moon rise. The wind becomes strong, for the power from the east is great. Use it, child. Harness this great breath of goodwill.”

  Morgana lifted her face to the east, letting the wind dry her tears. Slowly, as if pulled from above, she rose, and with the horse and wolf following her, she used the moonlight as her guide. The wind seemed to push her onward to the bluff, until her toes touched the edge and she stared over the rock precipice at the swirling black sea far below. White swells surrounded craggy rocks. No one could have survived the fall
, she realized, her throat hot and tight. The rocks below were deadly, and the sea was a thrashing, icy dragon that would surely swallow any poor soul who slipped into its frigid death.

  “God be with you, Cadell,” she prayed. “Aye, and you, too, Ware. You were brave men and deserved not this. Forever will I do penance for your lost lives.” She plucked a wildflower from the grass and tossed it into the air. In the shaft of moonlight the flower feathered down to disappear into the blackness.

  She turned inland again, and the darkness seemed to vanish. In the clear moonlight, mists appeared, and within the shifting fingers of steam she saw again the child Logan, weeping, his soft sobs causing his tiny shoulders to shake.

  Reaching out, as if she could touch her vision and soothe the frightened boy, she called his name. “Logan…”

  He is near, the voice told her as the vision disappeared. In its place were the ruins — the rubble of what was to have been the first Castle Abergwynn. Morgana’s throat turned to dust. In an instant she realized that Logan was there, captured by Strahan, moved about by a band of Strahan’s outlaws, and finally hidden close to Abergwynn as a horrid joke. Her feet began to move of their own accord, and she ran over the uneven ground, stumbling, catching herself, and feeling an inkling of joy return to her blackened soul. If she could save Garrick’s child, all would not be lost.

  She was winded by the time she reached the crumbling walls. Moonlight caused shadows to play within the outer bailey and she picked her way carefully, listening but hearing nothing save her own breathing and the gentle pad of Wolf’s paws against old stone.

  But the feeling was stronger, and she was certain that the boy was hidden nearby. Wolf stopped suddenly, and the hair on the back of his neck rose as he stiffened in fear. His lips curled, and he stared straight ahead to a dark opening in one of the half-standing walls. “Shh,” she hissed, entering what had once been a doorway to interior stairs. Slowly she descended, carefully placing each foot on the crumbling steps, holding her tongue as rats and mice and all manner of other creatures scuttled out of her path. She kept one hand on the wall and was comforted by Wolf’s presence behind her.

  Blackness surrounded her as the stairs turned. Not even a hint of starlight pierced the interior. The stone walls felt damp, and the scent of the sea was strong. Somewhere deep in the bowels of this catacomb, she heard a soft whimper and saw a faint glow from a torch.

  “Be quiet, ye brat,” a thick voice muttered, and Morgana nearly slipped. Her boot scraped on the steps, and her heart clenched as a pebble rolled down the stairs.

  “Hey! Who’s there? Ivan, is that you?”

  The boy wailed pitifully.

  So Sir Ivan was a traitor as well! The light shifted and Morgana, holding her breath, scuttled backward up the stairs.

  “Bloody rats,” the guard growled, and the light retreated.

  Morgana’s hands circled the hilt of her dagger, and this time, as she descended the curved steps, she was silent.

  Holding her breath, she saw again the red glow of a torch. Wolf crouched, ready and still. She trod lightly over the stone steps. The sound of the sea was closer now, a dull and constant roar. Rounding the final bend in the stairs, she witnessed her vision come to life.

  Logan lay in a corner of a rotting cell, and his guard leaned against the wall, drinking mead and belching. A torch, mounted near a narrow window cut into the cliff face overlooking the sea, gave off an eerie flickering light. The air was thick with smoke and smelled of burning wood, stale mead, and urine.

  Morgana’s blood boiled as she crouched. This was no place for a child. She only hoped she had the courage to kill the guard. Suddenly Logan saw her. He screamed, and the guard whirled, knocking over his cup. Mead sloshed onto the floor and splashed upon his filthy leggings. “What the bloody hell?” he growled, scrabbling for his sword. The wolf growled and the guard’s eyes shifted toward the animal. “Saints in heaven, what’s that?”

  Wolf snarled louder, and the boy cried out.

  “Holy Christ, ’tis the witch!” The guard’s face paled.

  “Leave the child,” she ordered.

  “Nay.” His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but as he drew back, Wolf lunged, jumping and snapping at the man’s throat. The guard screamed and fell, dropping his sword. His arms flayed uselessly at Wolf’s hide, and his face twisted in terror. “Get this beast of Satan off me!” he shrieked.

  “Will you leave us alone?” she asked.

  White fangs snapped at this throat.

  “For the mercy of God, Lady Morgana—” he rasped, still trying to throw the wolf off him.

  “Wolf! Back!” Morgana grabbed the man’s sword and held him at bay.

  Tears streamed from the man’s eyes, and scratches bled at his throat. He shivered and sniveled, a weak coward who tortured a small boy. “Please do not curse me. I’ve got a wife, and we’ve a child on the way.”

  “Yet you treat Garrick’s son this way?”

  “’Tis but orders I was following, m’lady.”

  “You disgust me! You are lucky I don’t chant a spell that would kill the very seed within you so that you would never again father a child.”

  “No! Oh, m’lady—” he whined.

  “Wolf, stand guard.” While the beast’s golden gaze remained fastened on the sentry, Morgana grabbed a length of rope and tied the man’s hands and feet so that he could not move.

  “You’re not leaving me?”

  “Aye. Alone in the dark, where you and God can talk things over. Since you won’t be needing this,” she added, picking up a bow and quiver filled with arrows, “I’ll be taking it along as well.”

  “Just don’t curse me. Please be merciful.”

  She paused, as if conjuring up some horror.

  “Oh, please, m’lady, please,” he begged, tears streaming down his red-veined face. “Do not chant a wicked spell.”

  “Very well,” she said, as if she actually had the knowledge and the desire to dabble in the black arts.

  “You’ll send someone back for me…” he mumbled pitifully.

  Morgana strapped the quiver and bow over her shoulder. “Pray hard, man. Maybe God will hear you.”

  “Please, m’lady, have mercy,” he cried, but Morgana ignored the wretched mass that was one of Strahan’s men.

  She walked quickly to the child, and her heart tore as Logan shrank away from her. Holding out her hand, she said, “I will take you to your father, Logan, for he is greatly worried about you.”

  “Nay!” the boy cried.

  “Do you not want to leave here?”

  Logan’s eyes were round in the torchlight, and his little lips quivered. Morgana’s heart bled for him. “Come, child, I will keep you safe.”

  His eyes moved to the wolf, and Morgana smiled. “He will watch over both of us, little one. See?” She petted Wolf’s thick fur and was rewarded with a wet tongue against her hand. “Come on.” Carefully she cut Logan loose from his bonds and hauled him up. She grabbed the blanket she’d seen in her dreams and draped it over the lad’s shoulders. He was stiff and unyielding in her arms, and she knew that only time and his father’s love would heal his memory of the horrors that he’d lived through.

  Carrying the torch and the boy, with the wolf at her heels, she carefully climbed the steps. Over the steady roar of the sea, the guard’s cowardly cries followed her up the stairs. Oh, she would send someone for him, but not until the man had learned a lesson about children. Would that she did know a spell to kill his seed so that he could spawn no more like himself!

  As they emerged from the dungeon, the east wind again caressed her face and tickled the silken strands of Logan’s hair. Luck was grazing in the moonlight, noisily plucking blades of spring grass. The boy brightened when he saw the stallion.

  “Would you like to ride him?”

  He didn’t reply, just stared at the horse.

  “Come. He’s a great war-horse and deserves
a rider-like you.” Morgana lifted Logan onto Luck’s bare back and took the reins in her hands. She led the horse through the trees, away from the cliffs where Ware and Cadell had plunged to their death, and into the darkness of the forest.

  Part of her quest was complete. She’d found Logan. Now she had to find a way to save Garrick and Abergwynn, and that would take time. If, indeed, Garrick was still alive. She ached to the very bottom of her soul, and she longed for vengeance against Strahan. “Hold on, child,” she whispered, to herself as much as to the boy. “We face a long journey.”

  “I do not want him to die yet!” Strahan said, eyeing the bed where Garrick lay. Garrick hadn’t moved all night, and despite the continual droning prayers of Morgana’s sister, Glyn, he seemed to be worse. Even Clare’s ministrations had no effect.

  “If you didn’t want him to die, you should have ordered your men not to shoot!” Clare snapped, her lips curled in disgust. “Your greed and treachery has led to this, Strahan, and if you are stupid enough to trust Osric McBrayne, then you deserve all the suffering that God will send your way.” She rubbed some ointment upon the wound in her brother’s shoulder and turned her back on Strahan.

  “He must live,” Strahan said. “Make sure he does.”

  “Then you’d better find Morgana of Wenlock.” Turning toward him, Clare lifted her pointed chin defiantly. Even with scratches on her hairless scalp, she was a commanding woman, a woman Strahan sometimes feared. “For my brother needs stronger medication than I can give him, aye, stronger than that of any physician or apothecary. Only Morgana can save him. Elsewise, I suggest you tell Father Francis to administer last rites.”

  “You lie,” Strahan said.

  Clare’s eyes turned sad. “He is my brother, Strahan, my only brother still living, if your men tell the truth. I would do anything to make him well again, but ’tis out of my hands.”

  Strahan felt a rising panic. True, he had oftimes envisioned Garrick’s death, but always in a heroic setting. In his fantasies Strahan saw himself as a great leader of men who set others free of Garrick’s rule. He wanted Garrick, before he died, to understand why he’d stolen Abergwynn and to watch as Strahan took the things he most valued — his castle and woman. As for Logan, Strahan would not have hurt the boy — not truly hurt him. He only wanted to see Garrick stripped of everything he cared for. But now, as he stared down at the white face of his cousin, he felt an absurd twinge of guilt.