Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“She has found others who were lost,” Strahan argued. “Logan’s trail is no longer fresh. Even the dogs know not where to look.”

Garrick couldn’t argue the point. His jaw grew tight, and he threw an angry glare at the dogs lying restlessly in the shadows. Strahan spoke the truth. Logan and his nursemaid, Jocelyn, had been missing too long already. Each day that passed increased the chances that Garrick would never see his son again.

“Have you any other plan?” Strahan pressed.

Garrick shoved his wet hair from his face, leaving a streak of mud on his forehead. “I have sent spies to Castle Pennick and Castle Hawarth, whose barons once allied themselves with the rebellion. My men will mingle with the peasants and servants and learn what they can.” His nostrils flared. “If the barons have done my son harm,” he pledged, his deep voice ringing to the crossbeams overheard, “they will pay with their lives.”

“What if your men find nothing?” Strahan asked.

Garrick felt concerned, but he had no choice. As Strahan had pointed out, he would be soon out of options. “If Calvert and Trent return with naught, I shall seek out the witch.” The thought of a sorceress — a woman with a talent for magic and the black arts — bothered him. Though he was not deeply religious, he did not like going against God. Noticing Habren sweeping the rushes, he growled at her to bring him a cup of ale. When her eyebrows sprang upward in surprise, he barked still louder, and soon she returned with a silver cup for each of the men near the fire. Garrick drained his in a single swallow.

He considered what the chaplain might say if he did indeed go forth in quest of a witch, then decided he didn’t really give a bloody damn what the good man thought. Leave Friar Francis to his useless prayers. It was time for swords.

Calvert returned at nightfall. His face was white, and his shoulders slumped as he approached Lord Garrick, who was seated at the trestle table in the great hall. Kneeling before his baron, Calvert said, “I have failed, my lord.”

Garrick motioned for him to stand.

“I found no trace of Master Logan at Castle Pennick.” Calvert, a short man with a bulbous nose and red eyebrows, struggled to his feet.

“You questioned all the servants?” Garrick asked, his spirits sinking ever deeper.

“Aye, and some of the soldiers whose tongues were loosened with ale.”

“Know they nothing?”

Calvert shook his head. “If the boy is at Pennick, he is hidden deep and the secret is kept only by the baron and his must trusted knights.”

Garrick turned this over in his mind. He had often met the lord of Pennick Keep, Nelson Rowley. “I think not. Rowley is known to brag. Had he my son, his entire castle would know it,” he surmised. “Aye, and Rowley would have made this fact known to me as well.” Garrick’s eyes focused again on his knight. “You have done well, Calvert. You may take your leave.”

Ignoring the pheasants and shoulder of venison on his trencher, Garrick glanced from Strahan to Ware. “We will wait for Trent and see what says he about Castle Hawarth.”

Strahan nodded, his dark eyes glinting a bit. “A wise decision.”

Ware didn’t agree, and his gaze challenged that of his older brother, but he held his tongue and bit off a healthy chunk of meat.

The next morning as Garrick was walking to the stables, the sentinel’s voice rang through the yard. “Sir Trent approaches!” Garrick braced himself. With dread thundering through his brain, he ran to the outer bailey.

Trent’s lathered stallion galloped into the yard, the man astride huddled far over the neck of his steed.

Garrick reached the war-horse as the mighty beast slid to a stop and Trent, reins and bits of mane clutched in his fingers, toppled onto the ground.

“See to the horse,” Garrick commanded the stableboy as he knelt down and gathered Sir Trent into his arms. Blood stained the knight’s shirt and encrusted the corners of his mouth.

George gulped. “He — he is not—”

“Quiet!” Garrick said. He glanced up at Roger, a young page who had run from the great hall. “Summon the priest!” he ordered the boy, fearing that Trent’s end was near and he should receive last rites. Garrick lifted the young knight and carried him toward the castle as George, wide-eyed, led Trent’s horse toward the stables.

Trent groaned in Garrick’s arms, his body convulsing in pain.

“Hold steady,” Garrick said gently, though he felt the life draining out of his young charge. He’d been foolish to send one man on so dangerous a mission.

“Master Logan is not at Castle Hawarth — nor is the maid Jocelyn.” Trent swallowed with difficulty. His breath rasped and rattled in his lungs.

“Get him some water and have a bed made ready,” Garrick ordered Habren as he carried Trent through the hallway. “Shh, man, hold on to your strength.”

“I’ll tend to him, my lord,” Habren whispered gravely. “Until Lady Clare returns…”

Desperate, Trent grasped Garrick’s shirt and whispered in a breath-starved voice, “I was caught by Lord McBrayne.