by Lisa Jackson
“M’lord.” A soldier stepped haltingly into Garrick’s chamber, and Springan slid past him, eyes downcast as she carried a bowl of chicken stew. She, too, was without hair, and Strahan felt a glimmer of satisfaction that her lush red tresses had been shorn from her scalp. Always a little uppity, that one. Well, the whore knew her place now.
“What is it?” Strahan asked the soldier.
“’Tis the boy, Logan, sire. He’s missing.” Strahan’s spine stiffened. “We searched all night, but found only this—” The knight motioned to the hallway, and a pathetic man stumbled into the chamber, bringing with him an odor so foul that Strahan wrinkled his nose. “Your guard, Kent of Hawarth.”
“Where is the boy?” Strahan demanded.
The man, red-faced from too much mead, seemed to tremble. “The witch has him, m’lord.”
For the love of God, the man was actually quivering! “You let a woman best you and steal the boy?” he demanded, as the heat of fury swept up his back.
“But, Lord Strahan, she swooped up from the very depths of hell with a beast from Satan that lunged at me and nearly took my throat. While the creature held me to the floor, she chanted curses and grabbed the boy afore she flew from the chamber and left me bound in the darkness!”
“You ass! Do you expect me to believe—”
“’Tis true!” the man insisted, his beady eyes moving from Strahan to the knight who had brought him here. He fell to his knees, groveling for his miserable life at the toes of Strahan’s boots. “Please, I beg of you, believe what I say!”
Strahan’s stomach turned over. This man had been entrusted to him by Osric McBrayne. “One of the finest fightin’ men Castle Hawarth has to offer,” the old man had said, and Strahan, fool that he was, had believed him.
He glowered down at the sorry lump of flesh in front of him. “What I believe is that you were lazy, drank too much mead, and let a small woman scare you! You’re lucky I don’t curse you myself!”
The journey took all of four days, but at last, travel-weary and nearing exhaustion, Morgana guided Luck through the trees to see Tower Wenlock jutting upward to the cloud-strewn sky. Tears filled her throat at the thought of seeing her parents again. She knew her father would at first be furious, for she was still banished, but eventually he would listen to her. He had to.
“Come,” she whispered to the boy sleeping in her arms. “’Tis time you had a warm bath and a fresh bed.” She kicked the stallion’s sides, and the game horse responded, ears pricked forward at the sight and sounds of the tower.
Morgana smiled as she heard the sentries shout. She threw back the cowl from her head and let her hair fly free. Wolf raced beside them, and a horn blasted, announcing her arrival.
Wenlock! Glorious Wenlock! For a brief instant her heart felt unbound. She rode through the open gates, and before Luck slid to a full stop, she hopped lithely to the ground, the boy in her arms.
“Morgana?” Daffyd of Wenlock’s brow was furrowed as he approached. “Where is Lord Garrick or Sir Strahan? Don’t tell me you’ve—”
“Father!” she cried, wanting to throw her arms around him. Tears threatened her eyes. “Please, Father, before you cast me out, hear what I have to say.”
“You’re as dirty as a forest dweller!” Daffyd said, his eyes dark with worry. “This child … is it …?”
“Aye! ’Tis Garrick’s son! Oh, Father, I have so much to tell you! We must make ready for battle—”
“Morgana!” Meredydd flew down the stairs of the great hall, her skirts billowing behind her, a smile brightening her smooth face.
“Mother!” Still holding Logan, Morgana embraced her mother. Overcome with relief, she was suddenly unable to speak, for how was she to tell of the horrors at Abergwynn? Responding to the warmth of her mother’s arms, she wanted to cry yet again.
“You’ve found the boy. I knew you would!” Meredydd’s voice rang with happiness. “But where is Lord Garrick? Tell me all. Glyn — is she learning her lessons? What of Cadell? He is not making too much trouble at Abergwynn, is he?”
“Oh, Mother,” Morgana whispered, tears raining from her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to remain strong, feeling the curious gaze of the servants and sentries upon her. For Tarren and Nellwyn, Berthilde and Cook, the smith and several huntsmen, the stableboys and carpenters, had stopped their work and gathered around to watch the reunion between father and wayward daughter. Even the provisioner had ventured out into the bailey. “I have sad news,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper.
Once in the castle, Morgana told her story carefully, and Meredydd upon learning of Cadell’s death, could not be consoled. Grief-stricken, she screamed and cried, and only after the maidservants had taken her to her quarters and Logan to be bathed and fed, was Morgana able to continue her conversation with her father. Daffyd, too, was grief-stricken, but he shed no tears. His eyes narrowed in fury and vengeance.
“We must hurry to Abergwynn,” she told him, but Daffyd was immovable.
“No daughter of mine will return to that place of death — at least not until Garrick is lord again!” Daffyd pounded his fist so hard against the table that the silver rattled and several cups of wine overflowed. Wolf growled from his position under the table, and several of the dogs lying in the rushes next to Daffyd answered him.
“But, Father—”
“Nay. I’ll send a message to Nelson Rowley at Castle Pennick. We shall meet two days hence, and together we’ll lead our armies onward and attack Abergwynn.”
“What if Strahan decides to kill Glyn?” Morgana asked, cringing inside when she saw her father blanch. “Or Garrick? Or Clare?”
Her father glowered, anger snapping in his eyes. “Then I’ll personally cut out his black heart. But I’ll not have you sacrifice yourself!”
“Father, please,” Morgana begged. “I must go back. ’Tis the only way.”
“So now you are a soldier, eh?” Daffyd scoffed. “I think not. Stay here, daughter, with your mother. She needs you, as does the son of the baron. War is for men.”
The discussion was over. Morgana knew that any further argument with her father would be futile, for Daffyd of Wenlock was a very stubborn man.
He intended to take all the soldiers Garrick had left at Wenlock, as well as some of his strongest men, and attack the fortress that was Abergwynn.
They didn’t have a chance. Morgana knew that as well as she knew that she loved Garrick. The only way to ensure that Strahan would spare the lives of those left at Abergwynn was for her to sacrifice herself and become his bride.
Daffyd insisted she eat, and she forced Cook’s food over her tongue. After the meal, she hurried upstairs to her grandmother’s room. A servant was just removing a tray from the bed where Enit rested.
“Ah, child, I heard you were back,” Enit said, her wrinkled face filling with happiness. “Knew you were coming, too,” she said. “You brought the boy.”
“Aye, Grandmother, but I bring bad news as well.”
“I know. I, too, have seen Cadell’s face” —her cloudy eyes fell to her hands— “but there is hope, for the soldiers of Hazelwood have found neither his body nor that of the brother of Garrick.”
“You think they live?”
Enit sighed. “I know not,” she said sadly. “My eyes have grown dim, and my power, so vibrant in my youth, has all but seeped from my body.”
“Oh, Grandmother, no!”
Enit held up a veined hand to silence Morgana. “I have had Cook bring up some herbs for healing, and Berthilde was kind enough to give me some candles. They are for you.”
“Why?” Morgana asked, but she guessed the reason.
“Have you not a plan to save Abergwynn and the man you love?” Enit asked with a knowing smile.
“You know?”
“I have seen your destiny, Morgana,” she said, settling back on the pillows. “You have within you all the good to make you a powerful wife, may
hap even a ruler one day, but you must prove yourself.”
“I would do anything to save Garrick,” she said simply, and Enit patted her hand.
“Then you know what you must do: sacrifice yourself and marry Strahan.”
Though she’d thought the same, injustice took hold of Morgana’s tongue. “He is a vile traitor!” she spat out. “He killed my brother and Garrick’s brother, and he has been cruel to those who trusted him.”
“He is to be your husband,” Enit said gravely. “For the sake of the child and for the sake of the man you love, you must marry him.”
Morgana knew in her heart that her grandmother was right, and yet her spirit fought the very idea of being bound to a man she hated. She shivered and wished the fates had chosen a different path for her. The voice of doom seemed to echo through her mind.
“You are clever, Morgana,” Enit said. “More so than Cadell. Use your power wisely, and take these herbs, the candles, and this.” Her fingers slipped beneath the covers to a hiding place in the bed. Slowly she withdrew a white bundle. She carefully unwrapped the old linen to show Morgana a knife with a thin steel blade and a carved wooden hilt. “Take this, child. See how it fits in your hand.”
Morgana did as she was told. The knife curved comfortably against her palm. Her fingers tightened easily around the wooden handle.
“This is not a weapon, Morgana. Understand that. This knife is for your magic and only for your magic. Keep it wrapped until the next full moon. After sunset on that day, take the knife to a wild place where you can be all alone. Upon a small hill with a stream running by, you must kneel facing north and plunge the knife blade into the earth. Leave it there for the count of thirty, and then pull it out of the ground. From the highest spot on the hill you will then face east, hold the knife aloft, and conjure up the winds. Afterward you must build a fire, face south, and thrust the knife into the flames. Finally, dip the blade into the stream and face west. Each time you use the knife you must ask nature to aid you in your practice of magic. Then you should wrap the knife in the linen for safekeeping. It will serve you well, as it has served me, but it is to be used only in the healing arts.”
Gently Morgana folded the cloth over the knife.
Her grandmother’s hand clamped firmly over hers. “All that I have, Morgana, is yours. All the powers of my sight are now vested in you. I thought that Cadell, and mayhap Glyn someday, would be able to see their destiny, but Cadell is gone and Glyn will never open her mind to the healing arts. ’Tis only you who is blessed.”
Morgana felt her grandmother tremble and noticed the rasp that was each breath. Fear assailed her. “But, Grandmother—”
“You are the guardian of the magic now, my child. God be with you. ’Tis time I rested.”
Morgana held on to her grandmother’s hand as, with a sigh, the old woman slipped from this world into the next. “Grandmother, please, don’t go, not yet. I have so much to learn!” Morgana pleaded. Tears burned in her eyes as the last rattling breath left Enit’s lungs and she lay still.
Chapter Twenty Five
“You’ll not return to Abergwynn, and I’ll hear no more of it,” Daffyd declared yet again. His face was etched with grief as he studied the blade of his sword. They stood in the great hall, and several of his most trusted men had entered. Daffyd waved them off and said to his daughter, “There’s been enough death in this family.” He shoved his sword back in its sheath. “I’ve made many mistakes, I fear. ’Twas wrong of me to banish you, Morgana. God’s eyes, but you know how to vex me, and I was too quick to punish you. But now that you are here and safe, you must stay. Leave the making of war to the men.”
“But, Father, I could be of help,” she insisted, touched by Daffyd’s admission. ‘Twas not easy for him to concede that he’d erred.
“You heard me, Morgana. Do not argue. Go to the chapel. Pray for the souls of your brother and grandmother and for the safety of your sister. I must think of war.” He waved her away from him and ordered a page to serve wine to his most trusted knights as they made battle plans.
Morgana knew that he would not change his mind. She, however, had no intention of kneeling on a cushion for hours when she was the only one who could save Garrick’s life. Daffyd had nothing to offer Strahan except bloodshed, but she could bargain with her wedding vows.
She hurried to the chapel, for she knew her father could see her, and she knelt before the altar and quickly crossed herself. Praying softly, she waited, half expecting Daffyd to send someone to spy on her. But the chapel remained quiet, and slowly, her heart in her throat, she stood. She wasn’t going to kneel here trembling and chanting feeble prayers, like Glyn, hoping for divine intervention while Garrick and his family were fighting for his castle and their very lives! No, she would have to find her own way to help Garrick.
Escape would not be difficult, for there was a window above the altar. As for a disguise, several monks’ robes hung nearby. She grabbed one of the scratchy, dirt-colored cloaks and tossed it out the window. Searching quickly, she found a candle, an extra length of thick rope for the church bell, and a flint. She threw them quickly outside and heard them land with a thud. Whispering a prayer that she wouldn’t be caught, she touched her pouch to see that her grandmother’s knife and her own dagger were tucked safely inside. She realized with a jolt that she did not have her trusty dagger, only Enit’s knife. Her mind’s eye saw the dagger in her room, meant for the pouch but lying on the table. God’s teeth, she could not go back for it. She would have to make do and use it for a weapon, if need be.
Hopping lithely onto a table near the window, she climbed onto the sill. The drop to the inner bailey was less than ten feet, and she slipped through the window, hung by her arms for a second, and then let go. She landed in the mud and grass and quickly snatched up the dull brown cloak. The rope was too heavy for her to carry, but she took the flint and candle. Then, before she was seen, she darted behind a hay wagon and donned the scratchy habit, raising the cowl to cover her hair and her face. In the pocket she found a small prayerbook. She pulled the hood lower over her face and waited for the darkness.
As night fell, Morgana ran briskly through the outer bailey, her hands deep in the pockets of her robe. Clutched in one fist she held Enit’s knife, and with her other hand she rubbed the binding of the prayerbook. “Help me,” she whispered as she hurried to the stables and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that her father had not come looking for her.
The stableboy, Robert, was still mucking out dung. She hid her face from him and approached Luck, glad the stallion was tethered close to the door.
Robert stopped his work and eyed her. Holding her breath, she untied the horse.
“That’s Morgana’s stallion, Brother,” Robert said as he leaned upon the handle of his shovel. “Ye know who I’m talkin’ about — the daughter to Daffyd, the one they claim is a witch.”
Morgana stiffened. She couldn’t let the boy recognize her. She lowered her head, keeping the cowl over her face. “Aye,” she replied gruffly. “I’m to bless the animal.”
“’E’s a bloody ghost-horse! Just like that mare she use ta ride. Bloody Phantom — that’s wha’ the witch calls her.”
“Back to your task, and … and God be with you.” She made a quick sign of the cross and hoped her act was believable. If only Friar Tobia could see her now — all those years of lessons had not been wasted.
“You, too, Brother, ahh!” Robert dropped his shovel and stepped back a pace. “’Tis the fiend of Satan himself!”
His face was white in the half-light as Morgana heard a low snarl behind her. Wolf! Oh, Lord, why now? “Aye, I’m to bless the wolf as well,” Morgana replied, keeping her voice deep as she quickly led Luck into the darkening bailey.
“Y’re no monk!” Robert declared, following her. “Y’re the witch ‘erself!”
Morgana had to gamble. “That’s right, Robert.” She grabbed him by the front of his scruffy shirt and w
ound her fingers into the fabric as she dragged him close so that her eyes and his were level. “If you don’t want warts all over your face or your toes to fall off or worms to cover your head, you’ll keep your mouth shut. If anyone asks, swear that you saw me near the kitchen.”
“’Twould be a lie!”
“You’ve lied before, I’ll wager, and this one will save you from the warts.”
He gulped, and in the moonlight she saw the fear in his eyes. “I’m telling you now, go!” she said, pushing. She felt a stab of guilt for scaring the child, but she had no choice. The fate of Abergwynn was in her hands. Without wasting a second, she headed for the portcullis.
The guard at the gate was straining his eyes against nightfall as she passed. “Good night to you, Brother,” he said softly.
“And to you,” she murmured, hardly daring to breathe. She kept Luck’s gait at a slow walk so as not to disturb the sentry and was nearly past the portcullis when she heard him cry out.
“For the love of Saint Jude! What the devil is that beast doing here? Brother …?”
Wolf snarled menacingly, and Morgana kicked Luck hard in the sides. The horse plunged forward as the warning sounded. “God be with us all,” she prayed, thankful that Wolf had caught up with her and run ahead. They raced across the moonlit fields toward the forest to the north. The cowl flew off her head, and she stared into the dark stand of pine and oak. She prayed that Garrick was still alive. She would give anything — anything — so that he could live!
He was sore and tired, so bloody tired. But he felt as if he hadn’t moved a muscle in a fortnight. He heard the voices around him — voices he recognized. But her voice wasn’t there. Morgana wasn’t speaking to him. Morgana. Morgana. He had thought of her often since the blackness covered his mind, imagined he heard her, felt her warm hands on his stone-cold soul. But now, as he swam closer to the surface of consciousness, he prayed for her touch, for her smile, for her kiss … He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t, nor could he understand what was being said. There was trouble; that much he knew. Though his mind was blank when he tried to remember, he felt as if a heavy stone had been placed upon his chest and he couldn’t shove it off.
