Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  The spirit of her true mother.

  Morwenna’s child came at dawn, when the apples were beginning to show streaks of red and the hay had been cut and the summer breezes were cooling with the nightfall. The labor took hours and she was exhausted, sweat-stained, and feeling as if she were being cleaved in half when she finally heard her daughter’s lusty wail and the midwife brought the babe to her breast.

  “Lenore,” Morwenna sighed as she heard a cock crow thrice and felt the tiny lips upon her nipple, “a daughter.” ’Twas a blessing, she thought, for there would be more babes, but this one, her first, would be closest to her until the others came, and their time would be special. “I shall teach you how to run a keep, and shoot an arrow, and ride like the wind, and plant a garden.” She sent up a prayer for her new child’s health as the midwife took the baby to a nearby pallet to clean and swaddle her. Meanwhile Frynne, the freckle-faced serving girl, quickly changed the sheets and helped Morwenna wash. Only then would Morwenna allow her husband to see his daughter.

  She heard him in the corridor, speaking to a guard, no doubt anxious and worried.

  Finally, just as Frynne was finishing with the plaits on Morwenna’s hair, the Lord of Calon muttered loudly enough for his wife to hear, “Oh, for the love of God,” then shouldered open the door. He burst inside, then stood stock-still at the side of the bed, staring down at his infant.

  “ ’Tis a girl, m’lord,” the midwife said, “and a beauty she is.”

  “Like her mother.” He came to the bed and watched in wonder as the baby suckled hungrily at his wife’s breast. One large hand reached out and he tenderly touched the crown of black curls.

  His gaze found Morwenna’s and, just for a second, his blue eyes shone. “She’s a miracle,” he said, his voice husky.

  “I’ve named her Lenore. After my mother. Unless you have another name you would—”

  “Lenore is perfect,” he said with a smile. “As is she.”

  He kissed the child’s crown, then did the same to his wife.

  “Oh, nay,” Morwenna said. Reaching up, she grabbed the laces of his tunic and pulled his head down to hers. She pressed her lips to his and felt a sizzle of desire pass from her body to his. He moaned and she felt her tired body respond. Finally, she let go of the laces and pulled her head away. “None of those little innocent kisses for me, husband.” She saw one side of his mouth lift in surprise. “I will not be treated ever, do you hear me, not ever like the dutiful wife on whom you bestow a quick kiss and be off and about your duties. If you’re going to kiss me, m’lord, then you damned well better mean it.”

  “So that’s the way it is?” he said with a lift of one dark eyebrow.

  “That’s the way it is.”

  “Well, then, so be it.” And he kissed his wife as if he’d never stop. Only when his newborn let out a little cry did he lift his head. “Aye, wife,” he said, pressing another soft kiss to his daughter’s curls. “That is the way ’twill be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The map seemed useless again. And Isa, damn her already dead soul, had remained mute. Though the journey west had taken most of the summer, as Gavyn and Bryanna no longer had a packhorse and spent much of the time in hiding, they had reached the western shore, where they’d found a farmer who promised to look after the horses, and a fisherman who was willing to ferry them across to Anglesey Isle.

  Over Gavyn’s protests, Bryanna insisted they keep going. Aye, her back hurt, aye, her ankles tended to swell, and aye, if she had her choice she would not be out searching for a bloody ruby on a small island surrounded by the sea. But Bryanna felt she had no choice. As the days had passed she was more certain than ever that she was not only piecing together the Sacred Dagger but somehow saving the life of her child.

  Two days later, as they voyaged on yet another boat to Holy Island, the fishing captain eyed Bryanna with concern. “Ye won’t be havin’ that baby right here on me deck, now, will ye?”

  “I’ll try not.” She felt awkward and queasy as the boat crossed the wide stretch of water, where sunlight glinted and shifted upon the surface.

  She was large now, due to give birth soon, with autumn now upon them.

  The pilot eyed her widening girth. “If ye need a midwife, my sister, there in Holyhead, she’s delivered more than her share of babes, including my own six. Her name is Ivey, and she’s married to the innkeeper at Holyhead.”

  “If I need one, I’ll ask for her.”

  The boatman pulled a face. “As I said, I’ve got six of me own. Ye’ll be needin’ her and soon.”

  Bryanna tried not to bristle, but the man bothered her with his gap-toothed grin and his knowing expression.

  “Yeah, well, you tell her Morley, he brought you over to the island, now, will ya?”

  “We will,” Gavyn cut in, as if he read Bryanna’s rising irritation and was afraid that she might offend the man. “So, Morley,” he said, “did you know a man named Waylynn? An apothecary.”

  “’Course I did. Anyone who lived here twenty years back knew him. Worked with me sister he did. Why?”

  “A relative,” Gavyn said.

  “Well, his old shop is still where he left it—in ruin it is. Shame about him, drownin’ an’ all.” Morley sniffed and ran a sleeve under his nose. “Don’t know what he was thinkin’, swimmin’ in that river so far from home. Though I did hear a rumor that he was robbed and left for dead. Nigh seventeen years ago, that was.”

  Bryanna suspected that her grandfather had not been robbed at all. The men who tracked him down were more likely Hallyd and his cronies, searching for the stones Kambria had given him to hide. Like Kambria, Waylynn had died protecting the dagger.

  Morley docked the boat and Gavyn, with their packs slung over his shoulders, helped Bryanna ashore.

  Morley gave them directions to his brother-in-law’s inn. “It’s but a short walk,” he assured them.

  At the clean little inn, the woman who greeted them looked like the feminine version of the scrawny man who had rowed them to Holy Island. She introduced herself as Ivey.

  “Well, look at you,” she said, beaming. “Did you come here for the birth?” Ivey looked from Gavyn to Bryanna and back again.

  “We’ve been on a long journey,” Gavyn said, “and we need a room.”

  The midwife nodded. “But the babe is due soon.”

  “Yes,” Bryanna said. “Soon.” She’d thought about finding a midwife often enough but had never known where she would be when she was ready to give birth.

  “I would be glad to help you. I’ve delivered dozens of little ones. In fact, just about any child you see in the town who’s less than twelve, I probably helped bring ’im into the world.”

  “Then I’ll call for you,” Bryanna said, “if the babe decides to come.” The woman seemed friendly enough, and it was comforting to think that someone so experienced at bringing babies into the world was nearby.

  “Now, go on up to the room. You rest up and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  Bryanna took Ivey’s advice, climbing the stairs, finding their room, and, though it was only late afternoon, falling onto the bed with a soft straw mattress and thick down pillows. She struggled out of her clothes and fell into a deep sleep. She didn’t awaken when the food was brought up, didn’t want to even think about the damned ruby. In fact, she didn’t raise her head until the following morning.

  When she finally awoke, Gavyn was nowhere to be found. The impression of his body remained upon the cold mattress. A platter of leftover cheese, dark bread, an apple, and a piece of salted fish were placed upon a small rough-hewn table. Her stomach grumbled with hunger.

  She sat up in the bed and felt a crick in her neck, then stretched. Ungainly, she climbed out of bed and ignored the pain in her lower back. She felt cranky and, despite all the sleep, still sluggish. Gavyn had probably been right. She should have gone to Calon to have this child and, yes, gotten married by the priest who resided there. She laughed a
t the thought. She was on a quest, thinking she might be the daughter of a sorceress. . . . She doubted a priest would bless her marriage.

  Gavyn was adamant on the subject, swearing he loved her, that he wanted to marry her, though, of course, they both knew the true reason was the child.

  Her head pounded; she couldn’t think of this today. She ate a little of the cheese and a bite of bread, then pulled out the map. As she ate, she studied each section of deerskin, the symbols upon it, the way it connected to the others. With her dagger in hand, she prayed, asking Isa to come to her, asking the Great Mother to bless her, but the knife remained cold and lifeless in her hands. Again, she tried. Again she failed.

  Oh, ’twas useless.

  And where was Gavyn? She washed her face and adjusted her hair and clothes. She was about to go searching for him when he arrived, his face ruddy, as if he’d been on a brisk walk by the sea.

  “I found Waylynn’s hut,” he said without preamble, “or what’s left of it.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “Right there. The place has a view of this ancient fort, Caer Gybi.”

  “Good.” Ignoring a sharp twinge of pain in her lower back, she gathered up the map and dagger, stuffed them both in her pouch, and started for the door. “Show me.”

  “You’re certain they were going to the island?” Carrick of Wybren asked the farmer, a man as thin as his own scarecrow. He scratched at the earth with his rake while his family—two older boys, a toddler, and the farmer’s wife—worked in the garden behind him.

  “Aye, that they did. Said they’d be back within the month and asked me if I could board these two here.” He hitched his chin toward the horses grazing in a field nearby: a black destrier with dirty gray markings, and a sleek white mare with dark mane and tail. Bryanna’s horse, that much the mercenary recognized.

  “And you let the animals graze in the lord’s field?”

  “I pays me taxes, I do. I got me no fight with the baron. You ask anyone if Farmer Reece pays his bodel silver, chiminage, agistment and wood-penny. Fodder corn, too. And when they lay me bones in the ground, aye, my wife, Ellynna there, she’ll pay heriot, and give the lord me best animal. So Baron Laython, he’s got no argument with me.” The farmer propped his rake into the dusty soil, then swatted at a bee as he slid a glance at the two horses. “So what is it ye want? I canna sell the animals. I promised the man I’d look after them.”

  “Then would you watch mine as well?” Carrick asked.

  Beneath the stubble on his narrow chin, the farmer’s grin widened. “For the right price.”

  “I’ll pay you what the others paid, and when I’m back, we’ll see. Mayhap you’ll end up with a new animal.”

  The farmer frowned, thoughts spinning in his head. “I’m an honest man, I am, and God-fearin’. We tithe, stay within the law—I pride myself so.”

  “I understand, but it could be that one of those horses, the big one there, is stolen, from a lord no less.”

  “Saints be,” the farmer whispered.

  “And the man who stole him has a price upon his head. Accused of killing a sheriff. If I locate this murdering criminal and find that indeed this is the man Lord Deverill seeks and bring him back to justice, there will be a reward in it for all of us.”

  “And what of his woman? She’s heavy with child, she is.” The farmer hazarded a glance at his own wife, pregnant herself, stripping dried vegetation from her garden.

  “Worry not. I know the woman as well as her family,” Carrick said, his jaw growing tight as he thought of Morwenna and the man she’d married, the brother he’d betrayed. Would all these days and nights spent riding and gathering clues in inns amount to anything? Any chance of mending fences? “The woman and her child will be cared for.”

  Leaning on his rake and squinting into the hot sun, Farmer Reece wiped the sweat from his brow. “When you return, we’ll see about all this. In the meantime, aye, I’ll tend to your horse, but you must pay me up front.”

  “Of course.” Carrick paid the agreed-upon price, then offered up another coin. “Do not release my animal to anyone else who might arrive. The horse is mine, bought and paid for.” He saw the woman looking over at them and she quickly turned away and made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  Farmer Reece saw the movement as well and looked up to the sky, as clear and blue as the sea surrounding the Isle of Anglesey. “Me wife, she ‘feels’ things. And this mornin’, one of my sons, the eldest, Thomas there, he swore he saw a wolf swimmin’ across the channel just at dawn.” The farmer snorted and spit. “A wolf, swimmin’?” He shook his head and picked up his rake again. “Women,” he said, as if any man would understand his comment. “And pregnant women, wanting to eat such odd things, havin’ ‘feelings’ and believing a lying boy who had better be confessing his sins to the priest.”

  A thin-faced boy with the beginnings of a beard paused beside a row of corn, his hoe suspended as he listened for a moment, then hung his head in shame and hacked at the ground.

  “Thomas there, he’s not backin’ down on the lie,” the farmer explained. “So maybe he saw himself a seal and thought it was a wolf. Who knows? The lad’s got a good imagination, that he does. I only hope he’s not givin’ up his soul to the devil.” He shot his older son a glance and the boy merely set his jaw in defiance and continued his task.

  “Sure, I’ll look after yer horse,” the farmer said, squaring his cap upon his head, then taking the reins from the mercenary’s hands. “And I’ll see to the saddle and bridle, too. Thomas, he can oil the leather. It’ll all be here when ye return.”

  Cael, the spy, turned easily. For a few pieces of silver and gold and a guarantee of his freedom, he gladly spilled more than enough information. As they rode west nearing the coast, the little runt of a spy nearly talked Deverill’s ear off. The salty smell of the sea was in the air as the weaselly man spoke of odd, magickal things, the same Sacred Dagger and stones Hallyd had mentioned. He also spilled rumors of a locked room in Hallyd’s keep where a witch as thin as vapor resided. And of Hallyd’s curse and obsession with the daughter of a woman he’d killed.

  “ ’Tis true, I’m tellin’ ye,” Cael insisted, riding next to the lord and puffing out his chest with his newfound stature. “I knew one of the men who was with Hallyd that day, when he was but a priest. He chased the witch Kambria through the mountains, upon a ridge in winter. When he finally caught her, she cast a spell that blinded him, caused his eyes to take on the shape of an owl’s, banished him into being a creature of the night.”

  Part of the story was true, Deverill knew. He’d seen Hallyd’s face himself, the odd eyes. And he’d seen the obsession with Bryanna, as well.

  “Why did she not just cast a spell upon him and kill him?”

  “Ah, well, she didn’t have the Sacred Dagger with her now, did she? Her power wasn’t as strong as it could have been. She had just given birth to her child and hidden the babe, then dissembled the dagger and had those who believed in her scatter the jewels. ’Tis said she’d drawn a map and cut it into pieces, one piece hidden with each of the stones.”

  “Then she hid the map.”

  “Or had a trusted individual hide each piece. That’s why Waylynn, the apothecary, was in Llansteffan.”

  “Hiding a piece of the map.”

  Cael nodded, his head bobbing on his weedy neck. “Only a witch with powers as great as Kambria’s own would be able to piece the dagger together again, and only after she had found each of the missing jewels and affixed them to the dagger.”

  Deverill found himself intrigued by the weaselly man’s story of the magickal dagger. His pulse quickened at the thought of getting his hands on such a treasure. Not to mention the added satisfaction to be gained at besting Lord Hallyd, who obviously knew of the dagger’s value and sought to snatch it up behind Deverill’s back. The owl-eyed swindler! Deverill would take great personal delight in wresting the dagger out from under him.

  But was the spy reliable?

&n
bsp; “How do you know all this?” Deverill asked reluctantly, for the little man loved to hear himself talk. Thank the gods they were nearly at the coast, the seabirds circling overhead attesting to their close proximity.

  Though Deverill questioned him, he believed the man, for the spy knew that his tales would earn him more than money—his very life hung in the balance, as well.

  “I know it because I listen,” Cael bragged.

  “You listen at keyholes?”

  “When I have to. Not only to what a man says, but what a man is not saying, what he doesn’t want you to hear. That’s the truth of it.” His face clouded up a bit and his big eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t know if he should continue.

  “What is it?” Deverill prodded.

  “’Tis something I shouldn’t talk about.”

  Though Deverill questioned him, hadn’t thought there was any subject that was taboo for a man so in love with the sound of his own voice. “Tell me,” Deverill insisted. “We have a deal, do we not?”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the spy’s temple and, for the first time since Deverill had met him, fear shone on the little man’s face.

  “All was not as it seemed in Chwarel,” he admitted.

  This was no surprise. The place had an aura of gloom and death to it. “You mean, aside from the talk of sacred daggers and hidden maps and dark obsessions?”

  “Aye. . . . You know, ’tis my talent to hear and see things others do not.”

  “Of course.” The man was a spy, for God’s sake, Deverill thought as he shifted in his saddle and felt the heat of the day sink into his bones. How long had they been riding west?

  “Well, at a keyhole I was, as you said, in the deepest part of Chwarel, where no one goes. No guards dare roam there, no one except Lord Hallyd. He goes there often, sometimes carrying a mazer of goat or pig’s blood. So I follows him one night, I do, and I look through the damned keyhole, but I see nothing. ’Tis dark on the other side, well, you know, because the baron, he likes it dark. But I hear a voice. His voice.”