Enchantress

  “M’lady,” a sweet voice chanted, and Morgana turned to find Springan, her small boy in tow, scurrying through the door toting a load of firewood. Sourly, she dropped the sticks into a bin and dusted her hands of the dirt and moss. “Sir Daffyd has given me the honor of becoming your maid,” she announced, her eyes slitting a bit.

  “My maid?” Morgana repeated, stunned. “But I’ve no need of a maid.”

  “At Abergwynn.” Springan’s smile was meant to be friendly, but she let her eyelids fall to hide her true expression. “I thought you knew. ’Tis your mother’s gift to you.”

  “Do you want to go with me to Abergwynn?” Morgana asked.

  “Aye.”

  “But what of Lind? Is he not too young to make the journey with soldiers?” Morgana asked, surprised that the young mother would leave her son and the comfort of Tower Wenlock to risk the unknown at Abergwynn. Here her boy would be accepted as part of the household, but at the castle of Maginnis …?

  “Lind will follow later,” Springan replied without much concern. “When we are settled at the castle.” She reached down and picked the boy up, resting him on one rounded hip.

  “Aye, and I’ll be takin’ care of the lad until he leaves for Abergwynn,” Tarren piped up as the eel began to sizzle over the fire.

  “Well, see that you sweep the rushes here and clean this place before ye leave,” Cook ordered Springan, shaking her head as she began gutting chickens. Springan managed a cold smile and took her boy outside.

  A premonition of dread trickled Morgana’s scalp. Springan, though loyal, was known for her temper and stubborn streak. She had been in several fights with the other maids. Her being at Abergwynn could only spell trouble.

  There was no time for long good-byes. As Morgana rode through the gates of Tower Wenlock, she glanced over her shoulder and saw the members of her family clustered near the steps of the great hall. Her chin wobbled slightly, but she waved and straightened in the uncomfortable saddle. Wolf, who had not left her side ever since the soldiers arrived, had been forbidden to go with her. Her father and the baron were adamant; she was allowed her horse, her clothes, some jewelry, and the servant girl, Springan. All else remained at Wenlock.

  Morgana held no illusions as to Springan’s intentions. She left her babe with the cook and, under the guise of servitude, lowered her lashes around her lady. But Morgana had caught the gleam of hatred in Springan’s eyes when her father announced that she was to wed Sir Strahan.

  Springan, on an aging brown hack, rode at the rear of the company near a cart carrying the supplies, and Morgana ignored the murderous looks she felt cast her way by the girl. Springan wasn’t Morgana’s only enemy. Many in this company of men would just as soon see her dead as have to deal with her. The sentry she had once duped, Sir Henry, oft sent her glares full of pure hatred, and the other men, though somewhat fearful of her powers, were either lusty individuals whose looks indicated they’d like to lie with her, or skeptics who snorted at the thought of this fool’s journey to fetch a witch for Sir Strahan’s bride.

  Morgana had heard the whispers, knew that though the men feared and loved their leader, some thought he’d lost his mind when he lost his son.

  Wolf, who had been leashed near the stables, sent up a baleful howl as Morgana disappeared from his sight and the portcullis clanged down behind the company. Her throat closed as she thought about never returning to Tower Wenlock, never seeing her grandmother again, never running in the surf with Wolf playfully barking and splashing with her.

  Wolf howled shrilly again, and Morgana’s very soul seemed to tear.

  “Christ’s blood! What was that?” one skinny young soldier asked as he whipped his head around.

  “The witch’s cur,” was the short reply, given by a soldier whose teeth had all but rotted away.

  “But it sounded—”

  “Aye, like a cry from a soul who’s been damned.”

  The thin soldier crossed himself quickly and licked his lips. “I only hope Sir Garrick knows what he’s doing.”

  “Has he not been good to you?”

  “Aye, but the witch, she threatened to curse Sir William’s manhood.”

  The black-toothed one laughed. “I’d say she failed, for I saw William with the cook’s maidservant only last night. From the sounds of pleasure coming from the wench, I doubt the curse took.”

  “But to have her here with us, with Lord Garrick—”

  “Shut your mouth and ride. ’Tis not for you to question,” the older man said sharply.

  Morgana, overhearing the conversation, held her head high and, taking advantage of the situation, lifted one crafty dark brow and chanted some meaningless words under her breath.

  The skinny soldier jumped, and his horse responded by attempting to bolt.

  Phantom, in the company of unfamiliar horses, sidestepped and snorted, tossing her mane and tail as Morgana tried to keep pace with the double file of soldiers on sturdier mounts. They traveled along the road and through the woods, the very same path on which Lord Garrick had forced her to ride with him only two nights before. In the name of Mary, had it been but two days since the course of her life had changed and she’d been forced to ride with the savage one?

  The forest that surrounded Tower Wenlock was thick and lush, filled with game. Morgana had once loved this thicket of trees with all her heart, and the wildflowers and warm earth had always brought her joy. But now the woods seemed gloomy and dark. Fog from the sea still rolled among the black trunks, and even the new foliage, dripping with morning dew, seemed darker than the usual green of spring.

  Morgana watched Lord Garrick, riding at the front of the company. He sat tall in the saddle, and because of his height combined with the size of his destrier, he towered a full head above most of his men. He rode bareheaded, his black hair damp from the mist, his lips pressed into a line of steel. She wondered if he ever laughed, but doubted he found much merriment in life, especially since the disappearance of his child.

  The road curved, and the horses plodded through the mud. One stallion, ridden by Sir Randolph, sidestepped close to Morgana. Phantom lifted her head, her nostrils extended, and, snorting, gathered herself as if to bolt. “Not now!” Morgana whispered. In truth, she too wanted to flee this harsh band of soldiers, but the time was not ripe. She could not leave until she’d tried to find the baron’s boy, but as soon as the lad was discovered, alive or dead, Morgana would escape and flee far to the south.

  She thought sadly of her home, where she was not wanted, but she doubted that Maginnis would direct his wrath at her father once she had accomplished her mission. She was determined not to marry Sir Strahan, even if she had to hide in the forests and villages for the rest of her life.

  What kind of life would she have? A lady thrown out of her own father’s castle? A sorceress whose powers some believed bordered on the dark arts? A woman who had defied the baron of Abergwynn, a handpicked vassal of the king? If and when Lord Garrick ever caught up with her, he would have no choice but to try her and see that she was hanged as a witch. If she got caught. That, she swore, would never happen. Should she have to leave Wales, she might as well leave all of that which was called England. By the eye of the raven, there seemed no way out of this mess.

  Again Phantom lunged, and Morgana pulled back hard on the reins.

  “It seems your horse is spirited, m’lady,” said a knight riding on a huge white destrier with several battle scars showing upon its flanks. That soldier was a cruel one, Morgana guessed, the one whose eyes always seemed to flame when he looked at her, the one whose mouth twisted like an evil serpent when his gaze traveled lower than her chin.

  “Spirited?” Another knight, the heavy one known as Fulton, asked in a loud hiss. “Or besieged by spirits?”

  A ripple of laughter waved through those riding closest to her, and Lord Garrick sent a chilling glance in her direction. “Enough,” he commanded and the laughter died, but not
before Morgana caught the twitch of his own thin lips, as if he’d been amused by the joke at her expense.

  Bastard.

  “We will bide our time,” she whispered to Phantom. But she could not fail. Her family’s very lives depended upon her and her stupid powers. Oh, that they would work quickly, that she would find Logan and restore whatever peace the baron had once felt. Then mayhap he would set her free.

  If not, she would escape him and the doom of the marriage he had arranged for her. Her grandmother’s prediction, that she was destined to marry Strahan, echoed through her head. Never! Never! Never!

  They rode without break until evenfall, when they reached a clearing in the trees. There the soldiers quickly dismounted, leaving their horses in the care of the youngest rider, a boy known as George, who also looked after Phantom. “Keep your eyes on this one,” Garrick commanded the boy in Morgana’s presence. “’Twould be a shame if Lady Morgana’s horse escaped.”

  “I will guard it with my very life,” the boy replied earnestly.

  With a few quick commands to his men, Garrick approached Morgana and relieved the sentry whose job it was to watch her. “I’ll see to the lady,” he told the man. “You make sure her servant girl is taken care of.” Noticing the smile tugging at the corners of the big knight’s mouth, he added, “And no harm is to be done to her. The men are to keep their distance. She is Lady Morgana’s maid, and she’s to be treated well.” Garrick’s eyes narrowed on the man, who was but an inch shorter than he. “Do you understand, Sir Marsh?”

  “I will see to her personally.”

  “She’s to sleep in my tent. With the lady.”

  Morgana made a sound of protest. Sleep in the same tent with Garrick? Did he not remember the last time, when she had slipped from his shelter and —

  “This time you will stay where you are put, m’lady,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

  “I’ll not be ordered about and—”

  “See to the servant girl,” Garrick ordered Sir Marsh. Turning swiftly, he grabbed Morgana’s arm and guided her away from the clearing where his men had quickly set to work, staking tents, building a fire, posting guards, and unloading the wagon of supplies needed for the evening meal.

  She tried to wrench away, but her attempt to escape was futile, for his fingers were as strong as the steel in his sword. His strides were long and swift, his mouth set, and she had to run to keep up with him. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” she demanded, keeping her voice low as twigs snapped beneath her feet. The path was crooked and not well traveled, and puddles had collected where the carpet of moss and leaves had been scraped to bare mud.

  “Let go of me!” Again she yanked, but his expression only turned harsher. His grip was punishing as the trail widened and the trees gave way to the banks of a shallow creek. Clear water splashed over time-smoothed stones, and ferns grew along the earthy shore.

  “It’s been a long ride. I thought you might want to wash,” Garrick said, “or relieve yourself.”

  “You’re too kind,” she mocked, rubbing her arm as he released her. Though she was grateful that he was concerned for her needs, she didn’t like the way he bullied her.

  “You try a man’s patience,” he said as she watched the silver flash of a fish as it swam beneath the surface.

  “As you try that of a woman!”

  Garrick leaned against the rough bark of an oak tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you prefer to have Sir Randolph guard you? He has offered his services.”

  Morgana swallowed hard. Randolph’s lechery was evident in his evil glances, but she had kept him away by chanting words that meant nothing and by threatening to curse him. But how long, without proof, would he believe in her powers?

  Garrick propped one boot against the flat top of a large boulder near the creek. “Randolph is not the only knight who has shown interest in you, but as you are promised to Sir Strahan, and as you have a duty to fulfill to me, I see no reason to let anyone but myself be your guard.”

  “I’m flattered, m’lord,” she said, unable to hide the trace of sarcasm in her words and wishing she could control her tongue.

  “Aye. Well you should be.” His eyes glinted a little, as if he were joking with her. “Now get on with it.” He motioned toward the stream. “We have not much time.”

  “Think you, I’ll—” But her protests died as he turned his back to her and waited. She slipped between the bushes to a protected spot near the creek and accepted his offer of privacy. The grime of the journey was thick on her skin, and she took a few minutes to comb her hair and to wash her face and hands. She thought fleetingly of escape. With her agility, she could quickly cross the stream on the flat rocks that protruded above the rush of water. But without Phantom, how far would she get? Where would she go? Back to Tower Wenlock, wherefrom she’d been banished? Or to Castle Pennick and Lord Rowely, the old man who had more than willingly offered to marry her to strengthen his ties with the house of Wenlock? The thought of marrying a man who was older than her father made her shudder. Even Sir Strahan would be better than Nelson Rowley.

  “Morgana?” Garrick’s voice was filled with irritation.

  Morgana hurried, hating the fact that she jumped when he called for her.

  She appeared from a copse of oak, and Garrick, though angry, was taken again by her beauty. She’d removed her wimple, and her hair fell down her back in tangled raven-colored waves. Her cheeks were fresh-scrubbed and red from the cold water she’d splashed upon her face. Her eyes were large and starred by the drops of water that still clung like dewdrops to her thick lashes.

  Garrick’s gut knotted at the sight of her. “You take too long,” he said gruffly, still rocked by the simple beauty of this woman.

  “Just doing your bidding,” she said saucily. Turning, she started up the path, but again Garrick grabbed hold of her arm. This time she yanked it back and whirled upon him. “I’ll not be letting you lead me like a blind horse!” she said, her cheeks flaming. “I can find my way back to the camp alone!”

  He couldn’t help but admire her courage, and he wondered at the wisdom of his next move. “I wanted but to return this.” He held out her dagger.

  “You would trust me with this?” Her anger seemed to melt before him.

  “Trust?” He shook his head slowly and eyed the thin blade. In truth, he’d not been comfortable with the dagger since taking it from Morgana. “You may need it. We cross through lands that are not happily ruled by Edward.” He handed her the knife, and Morgana wrapped her fingers familiarly around the hilt.

  “You think I won’t use this against you?” she asked.

  He rubbed his chin, and his gaze turned thoughtful, his handsome face pensive. “I think many things of you, Morgana of Wenlock. Some good. Some bad. But in all that I have seen of you, aside mayhap from leaving your father’s castle vulnerable with your rope, you are not a fool.”

  She snorted. “Yet I am on this fool’s mission with you.”

  His jaw clenched and anger flared his nostrils, but he held his tongue. Motioning her ahead, he said, “’Tis time we were back in camp, and unless you want to be led like a blind horse, you’d better start walking.”

  She glanced at his face, searching for a trace of humor. A glimmer of amusement flickered in his gray gaze but was quickly disguised beneath his stony countenance. So the fierce one had more depth to him than she’d first thought. Surprisingly, she was pleased and chastised herself silently for being a dunce. So the man had a sense of humor. So what? Rather than risk angering him further — she turned quickly and started along the path, ducking the low-hanging branches and carefully skirting the puddles. She sheathed her dagger, and it rode along her hip comfortably.

  At the camp, the fire was burning bright. Several rabbits and quail sizzled on the spit, and the scent of smoke wafted through the forest. The tents were arranged near the perimeter of the clearing, and soldiers milled abou
t. Some polished swords; others talked and laughed while drinking ale; still others were playing a game of throwing knives in the red shadows of the campfire.

  The horses were tethered and fed, and sentries, more alert than the one who had let Morgana slip out of Garrick’s tent the night she’d met the great lord, guarded the camp, their eyes moving slowly over the closing darkness of the woods.

  Garrick led Morgana to his tent. She spent the evening with Springan, who spoke little. They were brought food and wine while a guard sat near the entrance of the tent and Morgana had little doubt that others, perhaps two or three, were posted to the rear. She chewed scorched rabbit thoughtfully. Surely Garrick was the death from the north, unless her vision had lied. Aye, he had vowed vengeance on her family should she fail in her mission. Yet he had trusted her with her dagger.

  Springan seemed near sulking as she sat on the edge of the pallet.

  Morgana, from boredom, tried to speak to the girl. “Missing Lind, are you?” she asked, shoving her trencher aside.

  Springan shrugged. “A little.”