Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  Garrick motioned for him to stand.

  “I found no trace of Master Logan at Castle Pennick.” Calvert, a short man with a bulbous nose and red eyebrows, struggled to his feet.

  “You questioned all the servants?” Garrick asked, his spirits sinking ever deeper.

  “Aye, and some of the soldiers whose tongues were loosened with ale.”

  “Know they nothing?”

  Calvert shook his head. “If the boy is at Pennick, he is hidden deep and the secret is kept only by the baron and his must trusted knights.”

  Garrick turned this over in his mind. He had often met the lord of Pennick Keep, Nelson Rowley. “I think not. Rowley is known to brag. Had he my son, his entire castle would know it,” he surmised. “Aye, and Rowley would have made this fact known to me as well.” Garrick’s eyes focused again on his knight. “You have done well, Calvert. You may take your leave.”

  Ignoring the pheasants and shoulder of venison on his trencher, Garrick glanced from Strahan to Ware. “We will wait for Trent and see what says he about Castle Hawarth.”

  Strahan nodded, his dark eyes glinting a bit. “A wise decision.”

  Ware didn’t agree, and his gaze challenged that of his older brother, but he held his tongue and bit off a healthy chunk of meat.

  The next morning as Garrick was walking to the stables, the sentinel’s voice rang through the yard. “Sir Trent approaches!” Garrick braced himself. With dread thundering through his brain, he ran to the outer bailey.

  Trent’s lathered stallion galloped into the yard, the man astride huddled far over the neck of his steed.

  Garrick reached the war-horse as the mighty beast slid to a stop and Trent, reins and bits of mane clutched in his fingers, toppled onto the ground.

  “See to the horse,” Garrick commanded the stableboy as he knelt down and gathered Sir Trent into his arms. Blood stained the knight’s shirt and encrusted the corners of his mouth.

  George gulped. “He — he is not—”

  “Quiet!” Garrick said. He glanced up at Roger, a young page who had run from the great hall. “Summon the priest!” he ordered the boy, fearing that Trent’s end was near and he should receive last rites. Garrick lifted the young knight and carried him toward the castle as George, wide-eyed, led Trent’s horse toward the stables.

  Trent groaned in Garrick’s arms, his body convulsing in pain.

  “Hold steady,” Garrick said gently, though he felt the life draining out of his young charge. He’d been foolish to send one man on so dangerous a mission.

  “Master Logan is not at Castle Hawarth — nor is the maid Jocelyn.” Trent swallowed with difficulty. His breath rasped and rattled in his lungs.

  “Get him some water and have a bed made ready,” Garrick ordered Habren as he carried Trent through the hallway. “Shh, man, hold on to your strength.”

  “I’ll tend to him, my lord,” Habren whispered gravely. “Until Lady Clare returns…”

  Desperate, Trent grasped Garrick’s shirt and whispered in a breath-starved voice, “I was caught by Lord McBrayne.

  “Hush, Trent. ’Tis time to save your strength—”

  “Nay, my lord, listen,” Trent cried, his face twisted in agony, his bloodless lips sucking in air. “I was with a wench in the House of McBrayne. She knew naught of a captured boy.”

  “Osric McBrayne found you — lying with a wench?” Garrick asked as a white-faced page scurried forward, offering a cup of water.

  “Aye,” Trent admitted, his eyes glazing.

  Garrick scowled as the page forced the cup to Trent’s lips. Water drizzled down the knight’s dirty, beard-darkened chin. “We will talk more when you are stronger.”

  “Nay! Now!” Trent insisted, slapping the cup anxiously away as his fingers grappled over Garrick’s tunic. “I spoke with others too — soldiers with loose tongues, craftsmen … freeman, and peasants.” He struggled, words coming hard to his cracked lips. “None knew of the boy … none.”

  “And still McBrayne did this to you?” Garrick whispered, rage tearing through his soul.

  “Aye … He said he would have no spies from the House of Maginnis in…” Trent’s last rattling breath tore through his lungs and he slumped in Garrick’s arms as the priest rushed through the huge oaken door.

  “’Tis too late, Father,” Garrick stated flatly. “He’s gone.”

  “Let me have him, my lord,” Strahan said, wresting Trent’s body from Garrick’s unwilling arms. Pain knifed through Garrick’s heart, for he cared for his men and he felt a blinding stab of guilt for having sent so loyal a knight to his death. His fists clenched, and he swore furiously despite the chaplain’s look of reproach.

  Ware, who stood near the stairs, had heard the entire conversation. His young face was lined, his eyes dark and threatening. “Will there be war with Castle Hawarth and McBrayne?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But Trent—”

  “Trent’s death is my fault,” Garrick said heavily, his soul as dark as midnight. Trent, trustworthy Trent, was gone. Killed because of Garrick’s blind obsession with finding his son. He was lucky Calvert had survived.

  He glanced down at his hands, still sticky and soiled by Trent’s blood.

  Mindful that his men were watching, he strode to the table where less than a fortnight ago his child had eaten with him. He took the towel offered him by a page and scrubbed his hands, revenge burning hot in his mind.

  If there were any servants about, they had vanished to safety, although a cup of ale was waiting. Dropping into his chair, Garrick leaned forward and braced his forehead against his fists. For the first time he considered the possibility that Logan and his nursemaid might be dead.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he told himself to be strong, to accept the fate that God had dealt him, but his jaw grew tight with anger and his soul sick with misery. What kind of a test was God giving him? How much longer would he suffer the pain of not knowing what had happened to his only son?

  Hearing the scrape of a boot, he reached instinctively for his sword and swung his head around, only to find Strahan, his face set, standing rigid on the other side of the table.

  “What is it?” Garrick demanded.

  “’Tis time to put this matter to rest,” he said.

  One of Garrick’s dark brows inched upward. “Now you are giving orders?”

  Strahan’s lips tightened. “Not orders, my lord. Advice.”

  “Aye, and I need advice now, do I?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Strong words, cousin.”

  Strahan didn’t back down. “The men are ready to ride.”

  “Ahh.” Garrick stretched his long legs under the table. “To Castle Wenlock and the witch.”

  “The sorceress — and even she does not deign to call herself such.”

  Garrick’s eyes narrowed on his cousin. He motioned with his fingers. “And tell me of this woman — of her powers.”

  A gleam appeared in Strahan’s sod-dark eyes. “She is the elder daughter of Daffyd of Wenlock and a beauty at that. Her grandmother, Enit, is supposedly a Welsh witch, and rumor has it that Morgana had inherited her powers.”

  “But you claimed she wasn’t a witch.”

  “They say she can see into the future. She hears the fates speaking in the wind.”

  Garrick snorted disdainfully, then swallowed most of the ale in his cup. “I do not believe in witchcraft or sorcery or talking to the wind.”

  “Aye, you are a God-fearing man,” Strahan said with more than a little mockery.

  Garrick slid him a cold glance. “You doubt my convictions?”

  Strahan shook his head. “I only want to help you find Logan.”

  “If the witch refuses to help?”

  “She cannot. You are her lord.”

  Garrick studied his cousin. He sensed that Strahan wasn’t being completely honest with him. Though Strahan was his most skilled k
night, he was as shrewd as he was loyal. He’d often made his ambitions known and was anxious to possess the castle and lands that Garrick had promised would someday be his. As soon as Logan was found, it would be time to give Strahan his due, Garrick thought. “The witch’s father may protest the taking of his daughter.”

  Strahan’s lips slid into a smile. “I am prepared to marry Morgana of Wenlock.”

  “Are you? Even though you think her a devil-woman? What kind of a wife would she make?” Garrick asked, amused. He took another swallow of ale. “During your first argument she might become angry and curse you, causing your member to shrivel or your hair to fall out.”

  Strahan caught his cousin’s humor and laughed heartily. “Nay, cousin. I will keep the witch so satisfied that she will use her powers only to keep me in her bed.”

  “Then she must truly be a sorceress,” Garrick replied, as he knew his cousin’s need for the company of women.

  Strahan propped one booted foot on a bench and leaned forward, closer to Garrick. “I want this woman, Garrick. I met her only once, but I have not forgotten her. She will find your son for you.”

  Garrick had no choice. Remaining at the castle, waiting, was doing no good, and he could not bear to sit idly by as time passed — time that might mean his son’s life.

  “If I go, you and Ware must remain here to defend the castle. There may be word of Logan, and Lady Clare will need protection, though I doubt she’ll want it,” Garrick said, frowning as he considered his strong-willed sister. Even now she wasn’t on the castle grounds but had gone to visit someone who’d been taken ill in the village. Against her judgment, however, she had taken two of the baron’s best knights with her. “Keep my sister safe,” he muttered to his cousin.

  “As you wish,” Strahan agreed, though his eyes clouded a bit and Garrick suspected that his cousin might have his own reasons for wishing to go on the journey. He was obviously taken with this witch-woman, though why he had not mentioned her before was a mystery. It had been three winters since Strahan had ridden to Tower Wenlock, and at that time, his visit had been brief, only to assure Garrick that Daffyd of Wenlock was loyal to Edward.

  Garrick rubbed the stubble on his chin in frustration. If indeed this Welsh witch could help him locate his son, then nothing else mattered. He would use her.

  And if she couldn’t find Logan, he’d have the satisfaction of proving her a fraud, though in truth it mattered naught. Whether she be witch or woman wasn’t his concern. All that mattered was that he find Logan.

  He took a long swallow of ale and felt a welcoming warmth in the cold pit of his stomach. But the pleasure of drink did not ease his mind. For the first time in his life, Baron Garrick, son of Maginnis, felt absolutely powerless.

  After draining his cup, he slammed it onto the table. “We ride at dawn.”

  Chapter Two

  I don’t know why you allow her to speak like a heathen, Father,” Glyn complained. Morgana’s family was eating supper at the large trestle table in the great hall of Tower Wenlock. As usual, Glyn was casting her sister dark looks.

  “I’m not a heathen,” Morgana insisted. From the corner Wolf growled low in this throat.

  Glyn visibly jumped. “Keep that beast away from me!” She wrinkled her pert little nose and tossed her head, golden curls falling past her shoulders. “There is gossip of her, Father. The servants say she thinks she’s a witch or a man — but that she most certainly isn’t a lady.”

  Daffyd of Wenlock sighed. “I will hear no more against your sister, Glyn.” He glanced at his son and frowned. “You, Cadell, finish your food. “’Tis a sin to waste it.”

  “Would God strike me dead?” Morgana’s fourteen-year-old brother straightened, but his blue eyes lost none of their mischievous luster.

  “Nay, but I would punish you and well,” Daffyd bit out.

  Cadell immediately took interest in his trencher.

  However, Glyn frowned sullenly. “But Morgana hunts rabbits and chants spells and talks to the wind.”

  Morgana lifted a dark brow. “Pray tell, sister, what do you do?”

  “I am a lady. I sew, and I pray to the holy saints,” Glyn replied, lifting her chin.

  “Then perhaps you should pray to the saints that my aim is true and that when I use my arrows on rabbits and quail I do not miss my mark and strike you by mistake,” Morgana said, smiling inside when she saw her sister’s face drain of color.

  “Morgana!” Daffyd muttered “I’ll not have that kind of talk at my table.”

  “Nor will I,” her mother added, sending a knowing look at her elder daughter. Meredydd knew that Morgana’s sharp tongue was partially her fault. Because she loved Morgana’s spirit, her love of nature, her ability to defend herself, Meredydd had allowed her firstborn daughter to ignore convention, much to her husband’s chagrin, though even Daffyd had trouble denying his elder daughter. Meredydd feared that Morgana would have more than her share of trouble to deal with. What man would want to make her his wife? A wife with a sharp tongue and an outspoken manner was not a blessing to any man. It was well past time for Morgana to consider a husband.

  Glyn, on the other hand, excelled at womanly tasks. She knew her place and how to wheedle what she needed from any man. Her fair curls and crystal blue eyes had already enchanted more than one knight from the neighboring castles. Aye, Glyn would marry well, but Morgana …

  “What is this trouble you’ve been speaking of?” Daffyd asked his eldest child as he sliced some meat from the ribs of a roasted boar and motioned impatiently at his son, who was trying to escape from the table yet again. As the boy sullenly slid back onto the bench, Daffyd again queried, “Morgana? The trouble?”

  “’Tis trouble and death. From a warrior in the north.” Morgana ignored the eggs in jelly on her trencher and addressed her father. “I am certain of it.”

  “As certain as you are of the voices in the wind?” Glyn asked, clucking her tongue. “Honestly—”

  “Do not jest about this, sister,” Morgana warned.

  Glyn tossed her head prettily and pouted. “We’ve heard about this trouble all week and we’re sick of it. There is no trouble, Father. To the north is Castle Abergwynn.”

  “Aye,” their father agreed. “You are confused, daughter. The war’s over; the Welsh rebellion has been put to rest by Edward. Longshanks proved that he is the most powerful, and now we will pay homage to him whether we so wish it or not. ’Tis to the east where our enemies lie.”

  Glyn, obviously pleased that their father doubted Morgana, grinned prettily. “Perhaps you should chant a spell for us, Morgana, or make the mark of a cock upon the dirt to keep us safe from evil spirits.”

  “Should I, now?” Morgana’s gaze rested on Glyn’s fair face. “’Tis said that the mark of the cock will cause ugly spots on the face of blond maidens who pretend to be virgins but have already lain with men.”

  “Morgana!” Meredydd declared.

  Glyn drew in a quick breath, and Morgana, eyebrows lifted, asked, “Would those spots cause you reason to worry, sister?”

  “Father, hush her tongue!” Glyn screeched.

  “That is enough,” Daffyd ordered.

  “As for evil spirits, the only one in this castle is you!” Morgana mumbled around a mouthful of jellied egg.

  “No more!” Daffyd, with a wave of his hand, dismissed both of his daughters as well as his son. “I’ll not have my dinner ruined by this petty bickering. Glyn, you are not to keep company with servants and gossip about your sister. And, Morgana” —his eyes, duplicates of her own green orbs, held hers— “you will be kind to your sister.” His harsh tone softened. “I will hear more about this trouble when you feel it.”

  “Aye, Father,” Morgana said, willing herself not to shoot a satisfied look in her sister’s direction. With a quick prayer, she left the table and hurried through the great hall with Wolf at her heels.

  Outside, the sky was blue and the sc
ent of herbs from the garden wafted on the spring air. Morgana ran across the wet grass of the bailey to one of the huts within the castle walls.

  “Berthilde!” she called as she hurried into the darkened interior. The familiar odors of beeswax and tallow enveloped her like a favorite cloak.

  An old woman, her back humped with age, her skin wrinkled, smiled when she spied Morgana. “Do not tell me you wish more candles,” Berthilde said with a soft laugh, “and keep the beast out of here.”

  “Wolf, stay!” Morgana ordered, then turned back to Berthilde. “Aye. I need candles, but only four.”

  “Your father wishes them?”

  Morgana shifted from one foot to the other. She did not want to lie, yet she had to have the scented tapers. “Nay, my mother needs them — for her chamber and the bower.”

  The old crone lifted her sparse gray eyebrows. “Her chamber is so poorly lit?”

  “On these dark days it is hard for her to see the sewing and embroidering.”

  Berthilde handed Morgana four candles. “Be sure these are not wasted,” she warned. “I have to answer to the steward just as he answers to your father. No one within the castle walls, least of all the steward, welcomes Daffyd of Wenlock’s wrath!”

  “There will be no waste,” Morgana assured her quickly.

  “Make no mistake,” Berthilde said, her watery blue eyes sparkling with suppressed devilment.

  She knows, Morgana guessed, and yet she gives me the candles. Stuffing the candles into the pouch at her waist, she whistled to Wolf and made her way to the stables, but instead of finding her mare saddled and ready, she found her father, his lips compressed, his eyes cold.

  “You have come for your horse,” he charged.

  There was no reason to lie. “Aye, Father, I wish to go riding.”

  “Despite the trouble that you say is coming.”

  She nodded, feeling a blush steal up her neck.

  “I think it best if you stay inside the castle walls.”

  “You would treat me like a prisoner?” she asked, astounded. Never in all her years had her father confined her within the fortress. He had at times asked her not to ride in the woods, told her to stay near the tower, or sent a guard to ride with her, but not once had he forced her to stay inside the walls.