by Lisa Jackson
Clare’s voice again. She sounded worried, but hadn’t she always? Even when he was a child, she had tried to tell him what to do, where he was making mistakes, what the proper course of action would be.
He tried to smile but could not. His throat was dry and tasted of sour vomit. A searing pain burned through him, almost as if his muscles had been severed by a white-hot sword. His stomach convulsed when someone tried to pour hot broth down his throat.
For an instant he thought of his son. Where was he? There was something wrong where Logan was concerned — the rock on his chest seemed to grow heavier, and the blackness started creeping over his mind again. He thought he heard Strahan’s voice, and he went cold inside. Strahan, his cousin. Strahan … the evil one. Strahan would have to pay. He would burn in the fires of hell! Garrick struggled toward consciousness only to lose the battle, and the blackness covered him like a soothing blanket as he dreamed of the beautiful Morgana.
The rising moon was full. A few clusters of clouds dulled the stars, and the air felt like rain and mist — the coming of a storm.
Morgana gathered her courage. After three days of riding, she was only an hour from Abergwynn, and she knew her father and his soldiers were not far behind her. She had heard them on the first day of the journey; then the thudding of hooves and men’s shouts had disappeared. Today again she had heard them. Soon they would catch her, but not before she’d opened the gates of the castle. Not until she’d seen for herself if Garrick was alive or dead.
At the tormenting thought she let out a moan, and she herself felt dead inside.
Her horse was lathered and spent. She stopped near a stream, and as the stallion drank from the cool water, she made herself ready. As her grandmother had instructed, she unwrapped the knife and faced in one direction after another, touching the blade to each of the four elements. She closed her eyes, sure that her grandmother’s voice rode on the wind, but she heard nothing save the lonely call of an owl, its hunt disturbed by her incantations. The wind was from the north, which was not a good sign, and yet she faced the cool breath of the fates. The breeze picked up, cold as death, whistling through the trees and moving heavy clouds across the sky. Morgana shivered as her hair was lifted away from her neck and tossed in wild waves around her face.
“Do not fail me,” she begged.
After she thrust the knife into the earth one last time and muttered her final incantations, she doused her small fire with water from the stream, wrapped the knife again, and hid it inside her boot. Then she fell to her knees and prayed, not for herself but for Garrick and for God’s help in her task.
She shivered inside at the thought of marrying Strahan; her guts roiled in rebellion. Yet she would marry him gladly if he would but spare Garrick’s life!
Clouds slowly moved across the moon. Luck and Wolf quenched their thirst, then rested. Within the hour the pounding of hooves and the voices of men sounded through the forest. She had no time to lose, for if her father caught her before she reached Abergwynn, all her plans would be for naught, and more blood would be spilled. Quickly, scurrying in the darkness, she remounted. Rain began to fall gently, and soon the moon was all but hidden. Morgana’s heart thudded in a painful rhythm. More than once she questioned her wisdom in disobeying Daffyd. Surely her father knew more than she about taking a castle, but she was driven by an inner fire that could not be smothered. Only she could save Garrick.
The forest gave way to lush meadows above which Abergwynn rose, a cathedral like fortress that commanded the countryside. Through the mist, the moon cast silvery shadows upon the land and illuminated the great towers and battlements of the castle. Was Garrick inside, even now dying from a mortal wound? Was he already dead?
There was a small chance that he had wrested the castle from Strahan, that her visions of death had been wrong, but she knew, deep in her heart, that her hope was false.
Steeling herself, she kicked her tired horse forward. Marriage to Strahan — the thought was like a hard, painful fist in her stomach. Her hands trembled, and she began to sweat.
A hundred yards from the castle she dismounted and quickly planted six candles in the damp earth surrounding her horse and her dog. Using her flint, she lit each taper and held one long white candle aloft, saying nothing until a sentry, probably roused from his sleep, finally caught sight of the tiny flames.
“Hey — wha’?”
“I want to speak to the baron of Abergwynn,” she yelled, her voice carrying on the wind.
The guard in the southerly tower shouted gruffly, “Who goes there?”
Morgana swallowed back her fear. Her small fists clenched. “’Tis I, Morgana of Wenlock. I need to speak to the baron.”
“Holy Christ, the witch has returned! Halt where you are! Advance no more!”
Morgana did as she was told, waiting, sweat gathering on her forehead though the night was cold and rain drizzled down her neck. She heard the rush of the wind and the battering of the sea against the shore. Cool breezes played with her hair and touched her cheeks, and the earth smelled damp. But she felt no joy in nature this night. Her heart pounded in dread, and she sent up prayer after prayer that her visions had been false, that the gates of Abergwynn would open and Garrick would appear. She trembled at the thought. Upon spying him she would run into his arms, confiding that she loved him, telling him she couldn’t live without him. Her heart nearly burst with the thought of all the vows of love she would make to him.
What would happen if he were already dead? She groaned inwardly and added another vow — a vow of vengeance. Enit’s knife pressed hard against her calf, and she hoped that the voice of the wind was strong.
She heard a commotion inside the castle walls — men’s voices, a horse whinnying, soldiers shouting, and above it all, with a loud rumble and clank of chains, the portcullis of Abergwynn rattling upward.
She braced herself, and yet when the outer bailey of the castle was visible through the open gate, her insides turned to ice.
Strahan of Hazelwood stood on the other side of the gate.
No! Oh, God, please don’t let me be too late! Dread clutched her in its icy grasp.
Behind Strahan, torches held by a dozen huntsmen lit the castle walls. Smoke curled into the damp air, and red and yellow flames cast moving shadows on the ground. Strahan, thrown in relief by the fires, looked like the devil himself.
“So, Morgana, you’ve returned.” He glanced at her circle of light and her monk’s robe. “No doubt to bargain with your life for those you love,” he guessed, his voice filled with scorn. “Dressed as a servant to God. I trust this was for my amusement.”
Morgana thrust her hands in her pockets of the monk’s robe. In one she touched the prayerbook; in the other she felt the hilt of Enit’s knife. “I am here to beg you to spare Garrick’s life.”
“You bring his son with you?”
Morgana shook her head. “Nay. Never would I entrust a child to you.”
“No? Not even your own children? Our children?”
She felt a rush of vomit climb up her throat at the thought of bearing Strahan’s child.
“What if I told you that Garrick is already dead?” Strahan asked, adding to her torment.
Her heart cracked. Fear flooded through her veins. “I would not believe you.”
“Would you believe his sister?” Strahan asked.
Oh, God, please no! “If Clare says he’s dead, then, yea, I will believe,” she said, panic welling up within her. Was it possible? Could Garrick really have ceased to exist? Would she not have sensed his death? If he was gone, wouldn’t a part of her, too, have left this world? Her heart shattered, and her knees weakened. All seemed to have been for naught … but as she stared at Strahan she saw the glint of pleasure in his eyes. He was but playing with her. Again she felt Enit’s blade against her leg, and the knife was a comfort.
“What makes you think I want you still, after you’ve given yourself to another?�
� he asked.
She held her chin high with pride. “Mayhap you don’t.”
“Mayhap I want you only as my whore,” he said. “Are you willing to give yourself to me without marriage, as you have given yourself to Garrick?”
No! “I will do what you wish if Garrick, his family, and mine are set free,” she said evenly, though rebellion boiled in her blood. “However, if they are not, then know you this: I would rather die than lie with a cur like you.”
He laughed aloud, the sound terrifying. “You’re not in a bargaining position, I fear.”
“Am I not?” Morgana asked, daring to match wits with him. She lifted her arms to the sky and turned her face to the wind. “Come all that is wild, all that is free. Follow these flames.” The sky seemed to boil as the clouds moved. Rain splashed against her eyes and her cheeks. As the lightning charged the sky, she turned in a slow circle and chanted: “Master of the gentle rain, mistress of the storm, guard against the sinner’s bane. Keep us all from harm. Shield the son of Abergwynn from the traitor’s blade, and let the traitor know we shall not be afraid—”
“No spells, witch!” Strahan commanded sharply. “Come forward slowly. If you truly wish to save Garrick’s miserable hide, you must prove yourself.”
Morgana walked through the circle of light thrown by her nearly doused candles. Her heart was filled with dread as she stopped a few feet from Strahan. “Before I go into the castle, set them free,” she ordered. “Garrick, Glyn, and Clare. They’re all to be unharmed.”
Strahan laughed. “Why should I bother?”
“So that I do not kill you,” she said evenly, her eyes holding his.
“Think you that your spells scare me?”
She forced a cold smile. “I think you believe in my powers. Elsewise why would you want me?”
“Perhaps I want you for your beauty.”
“Many women are beautiful.”
He touched her wet cheeks, and she shrank away from his hand. “Nay, not as beautiful as you. But beauty is only part of it. Garrick wanted you. He was tortured with desire when you were promised to me, and that made me crave you all the more. I have waited many nights for this one,” he said. “Aye, I will set Garrick’s family and your sister free, but only after we are wed.”
“I believe you not.”
“’Tis the only way.”
Though she quivered inside, she stood proud. She had her dagger, Enit’s knife, her own hands, Wolf’s sharp teeth, and her wits at her command. These she used now as she whispered, “Know this, Sir Strahan: I have seen your death. With my own eyes I have watched you lie on the floor of Abergwynn, your blood staining the rushes, your body writhing in pain.”
“You lie,” Strahan growled. “No one can stop me. McBrayne is on his way to help me defend Abergwynn.”
“He’s an old man, a man who has betrayed you before, and yet you trust in him. You are more a fool than I thought!”
Fury filled Strahan’s face, and he slapped her hard on the cheek. She stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Enough of your lies!”
Wolf let out a low growl, and Strahan froze. “Kill him,” he ordered, motioning to the dog.
One archer stepped forward.
“Wolf, run!” Morgana screamed and the wolf streaked for the shadows. The archer tracked the beast but he was gone. He lowered his bow in disgust as Morgana nearly collapsed with relief and Strahan swore violently.
“Lord Strahan! He awakes!” A burly knight, the one known as Ivan, strode through the ranks of the huntsmen. “Lord Garrick is stirring!”
Morgana was instantly jubilant. Not only was her wolf safe, but Garrick was alive!
Strahan’s fingers tightened in frustration. “Tell the chaplain to make ready the wedding Mass, and have the cook prepare a feast. Tonight Morgana and I will be wed. Come, my love,” he cooed, his eyes as dark as the night, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. “You must prepare yourself. I promise that you will remember this night until the end of your days.”
“I will not wed you unless Garrick and the others are set free.”
“’Tis done,” he said easily, motioning to a servant. “Now, come.”
Pain seared through his body as Garrick felt his pallet being moved. He groaned, shifting his weight, and groaned yet again. His head thundered, his eyes burned, and all around him he heard the excited voices of servants and soldiers — some he recognized, others he didn’t. The smell of smoke and perfume, sizzling meat and baked goods, wafted around his consciousness, dragging him out of the black oblivion in which he’d dwelt. He felt stronger than he had the other times he’d tried to rouse, and yet he was much weaker than his usual self.
“Welcome, cousin,” an ugly voice greeted him.
Forcing his eyes open, Garrick found Strahan, dressed in magnificent gray velvet, staring down at him with dark, malevolent eyes. Garrick started to move, but a huge hand belonging to Sir Andrew held him down against the pallet, which had suddenly stopped moving.
“Oh, don’t get up. You can watch from there.”
Dizzily Garrick lifted his head and found that he’d been carried through the castle and was now in the chapel. Father Matthew was dressed in elegant vestments, and Morgana, the enchantress, stood nearby, her face ashen. Dressed in a white gown trimmed in gold, she looked at him and couldn’t contain the joy in her eyes.
“You’re awake,” she said, but Strahan grabbed her roughly and forced her to kneel before the altar.
“Let her go,” Garrick whispered in a voice that could barely be heard.
“We’re about to be married. You can watch, just as you’ll watch afterward, when I claim her as mine,” Strahan said.
The gasp that escaped came not only from Morgana’s lips, for Glyn and Clare, too, stood witnesses in the small chapel. Glyn seemed frozen while Clare’s face was a mask of harsh determination, as if she were enduring this mockery of a ceremony only until she could rebel.
“We had a bargain,” Morgana reminded Strahan, but he laughed at her insolence.
“You cannot marry—” Garrick began, fury rising in his blood.
“As baron of Abergwynn I can do as I please,” Strahan interrupted.
“You are not baron!”
“Oh, but I am! I have command of this castle, and I will marry Morgana of Wenlock. You have the privilege of watching, as you may watch the consummation of the marriage.”
“Strahan, no!” Clare cried.
“Shut her up,” Strahan commanded a guard. Then he turned back to the fury burning bright in Garrick’s eyes. “Though my bride would as soon cut out my heart as say these vows, she’s agreed to marry me so that you and your miserable family can go free.”
“Nay!” Garrick tried to sit up again, and once more he was restrained. This time Sir Andrew’s hand slapped him across the cheek, and he fell back to the pallet, pain exploding through his brain, his mind threatening to swim back into the comfort of blackness. Yet he forced himself to remain alert, for he had to find a way to kill Strahan before he placed a hand on Morgana, no matter what the cost.
“Do not strain yourself,” Morgana said to Garrick, though she fought tears. “’Twill be all right. Logan is safe, and you will be free to go with him.”
Relief flooded through him. So she had found the boy after all. If for no other reason, Garrick would live, but he would not, could not, allow Strahan to marry Morgana. “I will never be free without you,” he said to Morgana.
“How touching,” Strahan cut in. “But you have no choice. The lady has agreed to marry me.”
“Never!” Garrick’s jaw tightened in anger, and Strahan laughed.
Closing his eyes for a second, Garrick wished the scene away. Mayhap this was all a bad dream.
But when he lifted his lids again, he was still in the chapel. The chaplain was at the altar, praying, and Glyn, Clare, and several soldiers were on their knees. Morgana and Stra
han faced the altar, and Andrew kept his harsh eyes on Garrick. Another soldier stood guard at the door. Garrick clasped Andrew around his wrist. “You vowed your fealty to me,” he reminded the tall knight.
“Aye, but I changed my mind.”
“You cannot. You promised me, and Abergwynn and the king—”
“On with the ceremony!” Strahan cut in, and Andrew shook off Garrick’s feeble grasp.
Never before had Garrick felt so helpless. Aye, he’d been proud, and true, he’d been raw with pain when Logan was stolen, but this — to watch as Morgana married the man she hated — this was too much. Rage kindled in his breast, but he feigned sleep, hoping to put Sir Andrew at ease.
The mass was moving much too quickly, and his brain was too thick to think clearly. But there had to be a way to stop this madness, to save Morgana before she gave herself to Strahan. He searched the room, his eyes moving slowly beneath his half-closed eyelids, rage pumping through his veins.
God help me, he prayed as he gritted his teeth and, with all his strength, threw himself off the bed. His body pitched forward toward the altar. Andrew reached for him and missed, grabbing the air. Glyn screamed, and soldiers reached for their weapons.
“For the mercy of Jesus,” the chaplain shouted as Garrick landed on the altar, spilling the wine and toppling the candles. Wax dripped, and flames quickly ignited the altar cloth.
Glyn’s scream curdled upward to the rafters.
