Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Lady Clare—” Sir Guy beseeched her, but Clare lunged, cutting his arm with the sword.

  “I said halt,” she commanded, her eyes ablaze.

  Ware and Joseph tumbled to the floor, and Springan rolled away from the wrestling men. Joseph still clawed frantically at the hands around his throat, his legs kicking wildly, connecting with Ware’s already bruised midsection. Still Ware clung to him, desperate to redeem himself. He would either reclaim the castle or die trying. Joseph was losing strength; Ware felt the lifeblood draining from his enemy, saw the bulge of Joseph’s cruel eyes.

  The men raised their swords again, but Clare commanded, “Drop your weapons. I will kill you. One at a time.”

  “’Tis you who will be killed,” Joseph rasped, his fingers scrabbling at Ware’s squeezing grip.

  “Is it? What would happen if Ware and I died at your hands?” she asked. “Are you foolish enough to want to be responsible to Lord Garrick for the death of his family? Unless you want to face him when he returns, unless you want to explain that you killed his brother and sister, you had better lower your weapons now!”

  “That’s right!” Cadell chimed in, ready to do battle.

  Still Joseph struggled, making a last vain attempt to save himself. He kicked and twitched, but Ware only tightened his grip, and the bigger man’s face turned an ugly shade of blue. Spittle collected in his beard, and he gagged repeatedly, gasping for air that he couldn’t get to his starving lungs.

  Ware pressed harder, cracking Joseph’s neck. The big man convulsed as a shudder ripped through his body. His hands fell away from Ware’s wrists; his legs sagged. His body twitched in Ware’s death grip. In a hiss of stench, the last breath left his lungs, and his eyes rolled back in his head: Sir Joseph was dead.

  Silence followed, broken only by Ware’s tortured breathing.

  Sir Guy was paralytic as he gazed at the pile of flesh that had once been Joseph. He glanced up at Clare. “What if Strahan kills Lord Garrick?”

  Clare said evenly, “Are you, Sir Guy, willing to take that chance?”

  From the open door of the hallway, a low, horrible growl rumbled into the room.

  “The wolf!” the soldier nearest the door whispered nervously. “Who the devil let him out?”

  “No one did,” Cadell said. “I had but to call to him and he came. He is, after all, the companion of the witch. Come, beast!” he said, whistling sharply.

  Again the wolf growled, causing the hair on the back of Ware’s neck to lift in fear. He struggled to his feet, the blood and spit of Joseph’s death throes still staining his hands. Beyond his own fear, he admired Cadell’s presence of mind. “’Tis true. The wolf is from the depths of hell. I heard Garrick say as much,” Ware lied, thankful for Cadell’s vivid imagination.

  Two of the knights dropped their weapons and crossed themselves. Ware grabbed one sword; Cadell picked up the other.

  Glyn looked stricken, but she didn’t thank God, or utter a word.

  Gold eyes blazing menacingly, the thick hair behind his ears raised, Wolf slunk into the chamber. His black lips were pulled back, and he snarled and paced, looking as if he might pounce at any minute upon anyone unfortunate enough to be in his path.

  Glyn nearly swooned.

  “Now, listen,” Clare commanded, as if talking to children. “This castle belongs to my brother. You have pledged your fealty to him, and yet you betrayed him by rising against him with Strahan. Now is the time to prove yourselves.” She lifted her sword a little higher, as if she intended to cleave into two bloody halves anyone who approached her. “What say you, Sir Guy? Are you loyal to Garrick or will you follow that swine Strahan straight to hell?”

  Guy glanced around the room — at Ware, who had killed the bravest of Strahan’s knights; at Clare, regal and self-righteous with her sword upraised; at pitiful, pious Glyn and daft Cadell. His gaze wandered to the wolf, and the beast crouched, his unblinking gaze focused on Guy’s soft throat. Swallowing with difficulty, one eye on the cur, Guy knelt, his head bowed, his neck vulnerable, should Clare or the wolf attack. He placed his sword on the floor hardly more than a rasp. “I shall pray for God’s forgiveness as well as Garrick’s. Would that his justice be merciful.”

  “Aye.” Sir James knelt as well, laying his sword on the rushes before him. Soon all five of the men had cast aside their weapons and pledged their loyalty to Garrick of Abergwynn. For this, Ware stripped them of their knives and imprisoned them in the very chamber in which he and the others had been held captive.

  “We can’t trust them,” Clare warned him, and Ware agreed.

  Sir Guy and the rest were too easily swayed, their allegiance either bought or bartered. Better to hold them here until Garrick came back. He could deal with the traitors.

  “Take everyone into the hallway and wait for me,” Ware ordered.

  Clare, after scooping up the weapons lying on the floor, did as she was bid, shepherding Glyn and Cadell outside. But Springan refused to follow them outside the chamber. Instead she hung back with Ware and the knights. Ware started to tell her to leave, but noticed the silent plea in her gaze. He decided she had been through enough and should be allowed to make up her own mind.

  Still holding a sword, he wiped the blood from his free hand on his tunic. The men shifted, and Ware eyed the disloyal lot of Garrick’s soldiers. “Try to escape and you’ll die,” he warned. “Mayhap, if you do as you’re told, Garrick will be easy on you.” The soldiers cast each other worried looks, but no one dared utter a word. Satisfied that they wouldn’t rise against him, Ware said, “’Tis done, then. We’ll have someone come for that” —he motioned to Joseph’s body— “and bury it.” He glanced at Springan, “Let’s go.”

  Springan hesitated, eyeing the hated body of Joseph. “May the dogs of hell forever gnaw on your bones, ye bastard,” she said, spitting on Joseph’s bloated upturned face before whirling swiftly and marching through the door.

  Ware doused the fire, then took the candles from their sconces. “You followed Strahan into darkness and therefore shall you dwell without light,” he said, proud of his words. Leaving the knights, he barred the door behind him.

  Springan stood like a soldier in the hallway and offered to stand guard at the door. “Trust me,” she said, her voice bitter, “I will let no man escape.”

  “God be with you,” Glyn intoned, her voice shaky. “My father will see that you’re rewarded.”

  “My reward will be Strahan’s defeat.” Springan’s face twisted with a hatred so intense that her beauty was suddenly lost and she looked like a scarred old woman.

  Ware offered her a knife he’d taken off Sir Guy and wondered at the reasons of her malice.

  With Wolf at his heels, Ware led Glyn, and Cadell along the upper hallway and down the stairs after Clare. His heart nearly stopped with every creak of the old timbers, but no more knights were lingering in the hallways. Except for a few servants, Ware met no one.

  “Saints be praised, m’lord!” Habren said, her eyes growing misty when she spied Ware at the foot of the stairs. She and Mertrice were carrying huge baskets piled with filthy tunics, shirts, and breeches.

  “Shh, woman!” Ware hissed. “Tell us where the guards are posted. If we’re to reclaim Abergwynn from Strahan, we must overpower his small army.”

  “There ain’t many,” Mertrice chimed in. “Sir Strahan took most of his men. But there’s two sentries on the battlements, the steward’s in the cellar, and two or three knights are still sleeping it off in the great hall.”

  “We’ll take them first,” Ware said, a cunning smile playing upon his lips.

  “Are any of the servants loyal to Strahan?”

  Habren snorted loudly and Wolf growled. “Nay. He’s a cruel one, he is. He has nary a kind word for anyone, and he’s often as ready to cuff you as not. There’s not a servant in Abergwynn who doesn’t yearn for Lord Garrick’s return.” She offered him a toothless grin and chuckled.
“Who do you think let the wolf go free?”

  “Good,” Ware said, pleased that the servants had started their own quiet rebellion against Strahan. “Now, you, Mertrice, go to the stables and talk to the stable master, also the thatcher and the carpenter, the armorer and the smith. Send them back here, but one at a time, so as not to alert the guards. Everything must appear as it was.”

  “’Twill be my pleasure.” Mertrice hurried out of the great hall.

  “Cadell, you and I shall take the guard in the east tower, then the guard to the west. Are you game?”

  “Am I!” Cadell’s eyes lit up with the fire of challenge. “I’ll run ’em both through.”

  “Nay. We capture them and hold them with the others, if we can,” Ware ordered. “You, Clare, deal with the chaplain. See where the loyalty of our man of God lies. But whether he be true to Garrick or has pledged himself to Strahan, he is to be imprisoned with the others.”

  “Good,” Clare said.

  “But he’s a man of the church—” Glyn said, and Ware whirled on her, his temper snapping.

  “Then God will protect him, won’t he? As far as I’m concerned all those who allied themselves with Strahan, except for the servants, are traitors. It’s that simple.”

  Glyn swallowed hard. “I’ll pray for your immortal soul,” she whispered, crossing herself quickly.

  “Do that,” Ware shot back. Then, moving swiftly, he and Cadell mounted the stairs leading to the east battlement. Cadell carried a dagger between his teeth and lugged Joseph’s huge sword while Ware was armed with Sir Guy’s weapon. They pressed their backs to the wall, keeping to the shadows, until they came upon Strahan’s guard, standing watch, his head nodding. Silently Ware stepped behind him, placed his knife at the man’s throat, and said, “One word and it will be your last, Sir Ivan.”

  The old knight didn’t even reach for his sword. “God bless you, Lord Ware,” he whispered, but, though he seemed relieved that Garrick’s brother was back in control of Abergwynn, Ware didn’t trust him.

  Within the half hour, both tower guards and the two men sleeping in the great hall were locked into the temporary prison with Springan at the door.

  Ware assembled the men — servants and freeman who worked for Garrick. They were a strong lot, but they were used to wielding hammers and pitchforks rather than weapons. “We have no choice,” he told the small group. “Cadell and I will take the fastest horses in the stables and go to warn Garrick. The rest of you will stay here and protect the castle. Let no one inside the gates. Clare is mistress of the castle. You, armorer, will be the leader of our new soldiers and the man responsible for the weapons. The women will guard the great hall, and the men will keep watch over the gates. Is that understood? All of you are to answer to Lady Clare.”

  The smith slid an uncomfortable glance at Ware. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but is it wise to let a woman run Abergwynn?”

  “We have no choice,” Ware said swiftly and caught the flicker of indignation in his older sister’s eyes. “Clare is as smart as any soldier and twice as brave.”

  The smith worried his hat in his hands. “I know, m’lord, but she’s so small.”

  “One doesn’t have to be large to be strong,” Clare reminded him. “Think of Sir Joseph — a big man who fell easily.”

  Several of the servants mumbled their agreement. They had already performed the task of burying the brute outside then castle walls.

  “All right, then,” Ware said, satisfied that Abergwynn was as secure as possible. He turned to Morgana’s brother. “Cadell, we ride!” He noticed Wolf, sitting apart from the hounds that lay under the trestle table. “We’ll take Morgana’s beast,” he said, wondering if Wolf would not better serve Garrick here. “He’ll lead us to his mistress and to Garrick.” Ware’s eyes met those of his sister. “Be safe,” he said to Clare, and then, with Cadell beside him and Wolf totting behind, they hurried to the stables where two of the strongest mares were already saddled.

  He could not stop himself. Morgana was too entrancing. Garrick stared at the moon and wondered if she had cast a spell upon him, for it seemed that every night his desire for her was so intense that his insides were on fire. He tried to douse the blaze that seared through his blood, but just a glance from her or the hint of a smile caused a yearning so intense that he lost his ability to reason.

  He took the first watch, standing on the outskirts of the firelight, his eyes narrowed against the dark woods. Oh, he’d been a fool, a prideful, useless fool. What right did he have to rule others? He thought of Jocelyn, who had been a happy, faithful servant. Jocelyn had taken to loving Logan as if he were her very own babe. How many times had Garrick stumbled upon her playing a silly game with the boy, the child, enchanted, giggling merrily. Now she was gone — killed, mayhap tortured and raped — because of his stupidity, his trust.

  He didn’t deserve his castle or his servants. Guilt constricted his chest, and he wondered again where Logan was this night? Without Jocelyn, the boy, if he was still alive, was no doubt scared to death.

  Garrick’s blood pounded at his temples. If he could but find his child —

  “Lord Garrick?”

  Her voice was soft, as dark as the night. “I thought you were asleep,” he said, turning to find Morgana standing only a few feet from him. The moonlight pooled around her and touched her raven-black hair with traces of silver. Her skin was white, her eyes luminous.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She walked to a tree and laid a slender hand on a low branch. Her brow knotted, and she chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “It’s Abergwynn. Something is wrong,” she said. “I sense trouble at the castle.”

  “What kind of trouble?” he demanded. She thought for a moment as he compressed his lips anxiously. “I have no time for this, Morgana,” he snapped. “I must find Logan. Can’t you conjure up some magic and tell me where he is?”

  He was mocking her. When the worry in her heart was so great that she couldn’t sleep, he had the nerve to scorn her! “I never thought you a fool.”

  “No?”

  “Your stubbornness and your pride will be your undoing!”

  “Mayhap they already are,” he growled.

  “Then trust me when I say we should return to Abergwynn, to face the danger there.”

  “When we are so close to finding my son?” His nostrils flared in the darkness. “You should be happy. Your vision came to pass. Jocelyn was here, as was Logan. We will not return to Abergwynn.”

  “I am never happy when death is nearby,” she whispered. The knots in her insides twisted painfully, and the visions danced in her head.

  Garrick cast her a withering glance and wondered aloud, “Tell me, is it possible to change the course of the future?”

  “Aye.”

  “And I, in going to Wenlock to find you, could have changed the course of my destiny?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?” He glared down at her and his eyes were lit with an inner torment that caused her to shiver. “Could it be that you’re the reason the fates have turned against me?” he asked slowly. “The very reason that God has seen fit to punish me?”

  “Your son was taken before you came for me,” she answered woodenly. His words had cut through her pride to wound her heart.

  “Aye, that is true,” he admitted, reaching out to trace the curve of her jaw, “but since you returned to Abergwynn with me, my luck seems to have turned for the worse.”

  “You think you’re on Logan’s trail.”

  “Aye, but at what cost? Jocelyn’s life? The danger you claim exists at Abergwynn?”

  Abergwynn. At the mention of the castle a tingle of fear cast a cloud in front of her eyes, and she wasn’t aware of Garrick any longer. The trees seemed to part in the moonlight, and like the nighthawk she had a vision so keen that she could see as far away as the castle, whose stone walls crumbled. She was swept back to Garrick’s chamber, where the
cold stone floors reeked of blood and death and Glyn’s fear was nearly palpable as it flowed into Morgana’s spirit.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw Wolf pacing, heard his cry, and watched as blood flowed down the tower steps.

  Rough hands shook her. Morgana blinked and found herself staring up at Garrick. His face was a mask of determination, and his silvery gaze drilled into hers. Her throat was dry and wouldn’t work. Garrick shook her again. “Speak to me, woman!”

  “Blood has been spilled at Abergwynn,” she got out.

  “Whose blood?”

  “I know not.”

  “For the love of God, Morgana, why do you torment me with half-truths?” he demanded, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. “You tease me with only partial visions. You make up stories that have only a trace of truth. You—”

  “You must believe me!” she cried desperately, grabbing hold of the sleeve of his tunic. “Why would I lie?” Looking up, her face twisted in terror, she whispered, “My family is there, too, Garrick. My brother and my sister.”

  “Who would dare attack me? Who would know that my army is split?”

  “Someone who knows you well,” she said quietly. “Someone whom you trust.”

  He studied the lines of her face, the worry planted deep in her eyes. “I might be close to Logan here,” he argued, but she shook her head.

  “Jocelyn has been dead for several days. The murderers are far away.”

  Shoving an impatient hand through his hair, he weighed his choices. He couldn’t let go of his obsession with finding Logan, and yet he couldn’t dismiss Morgana’s premonition. Not entirely. Had she not foreseen the golden ribbon floating in the water? Now, if truly there had been bloodshed at Abergwynn, he would never forgive himself if he ignored her advice.

  “We ride back to the castle at dawn,” he said, “and if there is nothing wrong at Abergwynn, I will hold you responsible.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” he asked, his voice low and threatening.