by Lisa Jackson
“Talk to me,” she beseeched the wind. Closing her eyes and emptying her mind, she waited for words to echo inside her head.
The voice was as soft as the drizzling rain falling gently from the sky: There will be death. It comes to the House of Wenlock from the north.
Perturbed, she responded, “This I already know. But why now? Why does the death come now?”
Because of the brave one’s impatience.
“What of Abergwynn? Will Abergwynn suffer, too? What of Garrick — is he friend or foe? And his son? Where is Logan?”
Again the vision of water — a brook with a bed of slick black stones and the gurgle of the current as the steam splashed and pooled. There were trees and voices — men’s voices — and deeper in the shadows of the brook, where the current eddied and flowed, a scrap of yellow cloth floating under the ripples.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Morgana whispered, feeling the breath of the wind against her cheeks. “Please, tell me—”
“Talking to yourself again?”
Morgana started at the sound of Glyn’s voice. Wolf growled, and Morgana gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to her patience. Her fingers curled over the stones of the windowsill. Didn’t Glyn know this was serious? Didn’t she realize that Morgana was only trying to help Garrick? Turing slowly, biting back her anger, she found her sister standing in the chamber doorway, her expression bemused, a forgotten mirror in one hand.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still trying to call up some witchcraft.” Walking warily into the room, never letting her gaze stray too far from the wolf dog, Glyn rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled by the dampness of the rain that seeped through the windows. “It’s a little late for sorcery now, don’t you think?” Yet her eyes betrayed her nervousness as she glanced rapidly from the animal to Morgana. She couldn’t resist teasing her sister, but obviously she was uneasy.
“I’d just like to help the baron,” Morgana said, glancing once again at the woods into which the war party had disappeared.
“Ahh.” Glyn moved her hands, and the mirror, catching the light from the fire, bounced flashes of brilliance against the thick stone walls. “You’ve had a change of heart. I thought you considered the baron some horrible terror from the north, the death of all of us or some such nonsense.” Before Morgana could respond, she added, “Well, I shouldn’t wonder. I guess. He’s…” Glyn paused, biting her lip as she searched for the right word.
“He’s what?” Morgana couldn’t help asking.
“He’s so … so powerful and strong. It’s hard to watch him suffer over the loss of his son.”
Morgana agreed, but she didn’t say so. This was a new side to Glyn, a side that noticed other people’s troubles, a side that pushed her own vanity and ambition aside. Glyn was actually concerned. A fine line of consternation developed between Glyn’s blond eyebrows, and though she still held the small mirror, she only played with the glass and didn’t bother to stare at her own reflection.
“I’ve been praying for him, you know,” Glyn admitted, stealing a peek at herself, frowning prettily, and stuffing a stubborn golden lock into her braid.
“That’s good. I’m sure Garrick would appreciate any prayers –”
“That’s not all.” Glyn glanced a little guiltily at her sister. “I’ve also been asking God, begging him, to make me mistress of Abergwynn.”
“You what!”
Glyn smiled at that thought. “It’s just so wonderful here. So big — as big as a king’s castle, I’ll wager.” She clutched the mirror to her breast and sighed dreamily. “I just wish Lord Garrick would find his boy and come back to me. However, if the lad has met with some horrible end and passed on, I hope Garrick will accept the boy’s fate and forget about him.”
“Glyn!”
“Well, he can’t spend the rest of his life in mourning.”
“I don’t think it’s so easy to forget a child,” Morgana replied, stunned at Glyn’s reversal. For a few minutes Morgana had thought her sister capable of caring for someone other than herself, but she’d been mistaken. Glyn had shown her true self once again.
Glyn made an impatient gesture with her hand. “I know, I know. And of course he loves the boy. It would be a terrible loss to think that your child was kidnapped or worse. But Garrick can have more children, many more children.”
“He’ll never forget his firstborn,” Morgana said stubbornly. To think she’d actually missed Glyn while she was here alone at Abergwynn!
“Of course he won’t forget him. Not really forget. At least not at first, but when time passes and he sees his next son or daughter, Logan’s image will fade and—”
“Oh, you stupid girl!” Morgana cut in. Her own visions of death had been so horrible she could barely think of anything else. “How can you even think such things? The boy is alive, and Garrick will find him.” Especially if I help him.
“Well, if Logan still lives—”
“He does!” Morgana said with more certainty than she felt.
“Garrick will still need a bride,” Glyn insisted, lifting a delicate blond brow in silent reproof. “What is all this concern? Don’t tell me, sister, that you fancy the baron—”
“Of course not!” Morgana cut in, though a rush of heat invaded the back of her neck. She had to help Garrick, whether he wanted her assistance or not. Now that her visions had returned, she was certain that she could help him, if not in locating the boy, at least in warding off the evil she felt was luring the baron away from Abergwynn.
“Wolf, come,” she said, snapping her fingers.
Glyn sidled a few steps away. “What—”
“Wolf needs to take a walk and stretch his legs.” She offered her sister a meaningful look. “He gets restless and angry if he’s cooped up too long. Want to come along?”
“Nay. I, uh, I have to work with Clare this afternoon. She wants me to learn all about those awful herbs she uses to treat the sick.” She glanced nervously at the wolf, and Morgana smiled. For once she’d bested Glyn and knew the herbs and their uses by heart.
Leaving Glyn with her mirror, Morgana whistled to Wolf, slipped down the hallway, and checked the corridor to see that she was alone. After sending Wolf downstairs she crept into Garrick’s chamber. When the door closed behind her she felt the clammy shroud of death again. “You’re imagining things,” she told herself, but couldn’t shake the feelings that Garrick was in danger. She hurried through the connecting chamber and entered Logan’s room. There the temperature was cooler, as if winter had settled in this silent, tomblike chamber. Treachery seemed to lurk in every shadowy corner. Her pulse began to beat a frightened rhythm. She sat on the edge of the child’s bed, and the vision came again — water and yellow silk, men’s shouts, and a child’s cry.
“Logan? Are you there?” she whispered, but the vision, as it had in the past, faded quickly, rippling away from her mind.
Morgana was left with a dread as deep as the sea. There was little time to lose. Garrick and his son were in grave danger. Morgana would first ask Ware’s permission to leave, and if it was denied, which she fully expected, then she would take off against his orders, defying him, defying Garrick, defying the very fates that had brought her here!
Ware drew back the arrow, pulling the bowstrings so taut the muscles in his forearm trembled from the strain. Taking aim, he set his jaw, then suddenly let loose. His arrow sliced through the air with a hiss. Thwack! It plunged into the heart of the target, a tarpaulin painted with a picture of a wild boar and mounted over thick straw bundles. He imagined that the target was the blackheart who had stolen Logan and that the surprised man was now pitching forward, clutching the arrow’s shaft and screaming in agony.
“You should have taken me with you, brother,” Ware muttered, as if Garrick could hear him. Ware’s skill as an archer and swordsman was improving. Aside from Garrick and Strahan, Ware was the truest shot at Abergwynn. Yet he was treated like a child, force
d to stay in the castle with his sister, told he was in charge, when in fact it was Strahan who ruled in Garrick’s absence. Simmering with the injustice of the situation, Ware reached for another arrow, sent it streaking through the air, and killed yet another imaginary enemy.
Didn’t Garrick know how Ware itched to do battle, how he longed to feel the charge of a lightning-swift war-horse as it galloped into a clattering melee of swords and beasts and sweating men? He longed to hear the clang of metal, the thunder of hooves, the battle cries and screams of death. He could almost smell the smoke from the campfire and the sweat of men who hadn’t washed for weeks. He imagined the laughter and bawdy jokes and exaggerated tales of warring and wenching as the men, after conquering a rival castle, gathered around the enemy’s hearth, drank the man’s finest wine, lay with his wenches and servants girls, and felt a camaraderie and a bond like no other on earth. Ah, war would be glorious, and he would come back victorious, a hero, able to make the women — especially Morgana — sit up and take notice of his prowess as a warrior. Yet Garrick denied him.
“Bloody damned idiot!” Ware strode to the target and yanked his arrows from the straw that was packed beneath the target. Blasted stupid prideful Garrick. Just because he was a few years older …
From the corner of his eye Ware spied Morgana. A small smile crept across his lips, and his chest puffed out with pride. She was indeed the most beautiful woman in all of Abergwynn. Though she was pledged to Strahan, Morgana obviously cared little for his company, and personally, Ware didn’t blame her. Strahan could be a self-important pig when he wanted to be. As for Garrick, well, if Garrick was so smart, why had he gone to all the trouble of bringing back this so-called sorceress who hadn’t helped him at all? True, she was the most intriguing woman Ware had ever seen, and there was an unearthly quality about her. He half-believed the stories of her magic himself. However, the fact that her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes were the color of the sea, and her lips were soft and pink gave Garrick no reason to drag her here using her supposed magic powers as a feeble excuse.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked back to his mark and fired another straight-on shot, one that would surely impress her, before he turned his attention in her direction again. “What is it?” he demanded when she didn’t speak. Perhaps she was awestruck by his skill.
“Now that Garrick’s gone, you’re lord of the castle.”
Ware lifted a shoulder and took aim at the boar again. He couldn’t hide the touch of pride in his voice. “What of it?”
“I wish to leave.”
“What?”
“I’m asking your permission to follow Lord Garrick.”
He had just drawn back his bow. At her words he released the arrow and scowled as it barely nipped the target’s edge. “Garrick ordered you to stay here.”
“I know, but—”
“You’ll do as he said,” Ware ordered, shaking his head at her stupidity. Was she daft? Defy Garrick in his current mood? In Ware’s opinion, she might as well ask for a death sentence. Some of his cockiness drained away. “For the love of Christ, Morgana, you’re asking for more trouble than either of us could handle.”
“I can help him.”
He plucked another arrow from his quiver, took aim, and smiled grimly in satisfaction as he hit the boar dead center, near the heart. “You’ll help him by staying here.”
“Ware, please—”
He whirled on her, his bow taut. “Don’t argue with me!” Angry that he had to defend his brother’s rash decision, he kicked at a muddy stone and sent it flying toward the bailey wall. Had it been up to him, he’d have let Morgana go where she wanted, for he knew she was as restless as he. They were kindred spirits, held prisoner behind the castle walls when all the adventure the thrills, the excitement in life, lay out there somewhere …
She laid a hand upon his shoulder, and Ware nearly came undone. His gut wrenched up, pressing hard on his abdomen, and he was more aware of her than he’d ever been. She smelled of wildflowers and soap, and her black hair gleamed in the pale rays of sun, which had managed to break through the gloomy clouds. “Garrick needs me.”
“You?”
“There is trouble. I can feel it—”
“Enough, Morgana! If I let you leave Abergwynn, Garrick would have my head. You’re my responsibility, and so you’ll stay here, where you’re supposed to, and I won’t hear another word of it.”
Ware knew she wanted to argue. He caught the flash of defiance in her eyes, the petulant curl of her lips, the strong, disobedient thrust of her small chin, but she bit back whatever words were hovering on the tip of her tongue.
“Look, Morgana, would that I could let you go wherever you bloody well pleased, but I cannot defy Garrick’s orders, nor can you. Just wait. He’ll return, and when he does, if he has his son, he’ll be more responsible.”
He saw the clouds gathering in her clear eyes, and the sight pained him. Ware had never been in love and had sworn he’d never let a woman make a fool of him. But if he did allow himself to fall, if he let himself trust any female, it would surely be Morgana. Bloody damn, maybe she was a witch after all. She certainly managed to turn his thinking all around.
“How long must I wait?” she asked, seeming to agree.
“Just until he returns. I doubt he’ll be gone more than a week — a fortnight at most. Be patient, Morgana,” he heard himself say. He could easily have given that advice to himself, for he knew the torment of impatience, how it could tear a man up inside, make him do foolhardy and rash things. He supposed women felt it, too, though probably not the same way.
Women were strange creatures, as was proven by Morgana and her sister, who were as different as night and day — one beautiful and coy, a woman easily understood, the other as mysterious as a sea goddess, her beauty a sensual creeping being that seemed to grab him by his heart as well as his loins. Aye, he’d spent more than one sleepless night imagining what she would feel like against him, how her soft body would encase his as he thrust into her … He pulled himself up short. Already his manhood had sprouted to life, and a wave of embarrassment washed up his neck and cheeks. He was grateful that she’d already turned away and hadn’t — please, God — seen the bulge in his breeches.
Morgana left Ware practicing his archery, his face flaming, his eyes averted. She stepped through the mud and decided that when she could not accomplish her goals honestly, she was left with no choice but to stoop to deception.
Will Farmer was pleased. Things had been looking up ever since that fateful night when he’d taken a wrong turn and been attacked. The men had robbed and beaten him, but in the end he was better off than he had been before. Discovering that the lad he’d seen might be the son of the baron had propelled him to Abergwynn, and as he’d hoped, Maginnis had been more than generous with his reward.
He slapped the reins over the sleek haunches of the horse he’d been given at the castle — a prize, this one, a fine brown stallion sired by one of the lord’s prize war-horses. Luck, Will had decided to call him.
Luck clipped off at a fast pace, dragging the wagon and the old nag behind him. Will was counting the money he would make by hiring such a fine animal out to stud while being able to till twice as many acres each year as he had with the lazy gray beast.
He whistled to Luck and snapped the reins again. Aye, the robbery and beating, which had seemed so bleak a week past, now seemed a blessing.
He drove his wagon for several miles. The sun, weak though it was, was sinking, and he thought he’d better stop and make camp. No more nighttime journeys for Will Farmer. He’d learned his lesson and well. He glanced at his pack and considered the tasty rabbit stew that the fat cook at Abergwynn had given him along with hard bread, cheese, and ale. Today at the castle he had eaten better than he had in a long, long while, and tonight’s dinner would be no different. His mouth watered.
He reined Luck in at the edge of a clearing, built a fire
, and heated his supper. With a belly full of ale and food, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.
He didn’t see the she-devil hidden in the straw of his cart, didn’t know that she quietly untied his new horse and climbed onto the stallion’s broad back. With soft words, she nudged the animal forward, away from the warm circle of light cast by the dying flames and into the woods that were as foreign to her as the Holy Land. Yet she couldn’t be afraid. Not now. Not when her escape had gone so well.
Morgana had waited until the last moment, until the farmer was in deep conversation with Habren about the stew she was giving him. He had left his cart unattended near the stables. Armed with her dagger, Morgana had crawled inside, hiding beneath the straw and the empty bags that had held Will’s produce, and praying that Clare wouldn’t see fit to start another lesson and come searching for her. It had seemed to take forever before she heard shouts of goodbye and felt the creak of the cart’s old wheels as it rolled slowly forward. Praying she was invisible to the guards in the tower, she’d listened as the farmer whistled off-key. His tune was accompanied by the steady beat of his horse’s hooves.
Dust had clogged her nostrils and she’d held her breath, hoping not to cough or sneeze, hardly believing her luck.
Luck. Aye, the stallion was aptly named, she thought now as she guided the horse with her knees. She felt more than a passing twinge of guilt for stealing the old man’s gift from Garrick, but he had another nag, and Morgana planned to return the stallion as soon as her mission was accomplished.
She only hoped that Garrick wouldn’t see fit to punish her for disobeying him by leaving the castle and taking the gift he’d bestowed upon Will. She worried a little about that. Garrick would surely have to mete out some sort of punishment, lest he look weak to his men. She cringed inwardly at the thought, but still rode on, sending up a quick prayer asking God to forgive her for being disrespectful and a thief as well. She whispered a much longer prayer that Garrick would be forgiving as well, though she knew in her heart he would be furious at the sight of her.
