Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Cadell immediately took interest in his trencher.

However, Glyn frowned sullenly. “But Morgana hunts rabbits and chants spells and talks to the wind.”

Morgana lifted a dark brow. “Pray tell, sister, what do you do?”

“I am a lady. I sew, and I pray to the holy saints,” Glyn replied, lifting her chin.

“Then perhaps you should pray to the saints that my aim is true and that when I use my arrows on rabbits and quail I do not miss my mark and strike you by mistake,” Morgana said, smiling inside when she saw her sister’s face drain of color.

“Morgana!” Daffyd muttered “I’ll not have that kind of talk at my table.”

“Nor will I,” her mother added, sending a knowing look at her elder daughter. Meredydd knew that Morgana’s sharp tongue was partially her fault. Because she loved Morgana’s spirit, her love of nature, her ability to defend herself, Meredydd had allowed her firstborn daughter to ignore convention, much to her husband’s chagrin, though even Daffyd had trouble denying his elder daughter. Meredydd feared that Morgana would have more than her share of trouble to deal with. What man would want to make her his wife? A wife with a sharp tongue and an outspoken manner was not a blessing to any man. It was well past time for Morgana to consider a husband.

Glyn, on the other hand, excelled at womanly tasks. She knew her place and how to wheedle what she needed from any man. Her fair curls and crystal blue eyes had already enchanted more than one knight from the neighboring castles. Aye, Glyn would marry well, but Morgana …

“What is this trouble you’ve been speaking of?” Daffyd asked his eldest child as he sliced some meat from the ribs of a roasted boar and motioned impatiently at his son, who was trying to escape from the table yet again. As the boy sullenly slid back onto the bench, Daffyd again queried, “Morgana? The trouble?”

“’Tis trouble and death. From a warrior in the north.” Morgana ignored the eggs in jelly on her trencher and addressed her father. “I am certain of it.”

“As certain as you are of the voices in the wind?” Glyn asked, clucking her tongue. “Honestly—”

“Do not jest about this, sister,” Morgana warned.

Glyn tossed her head prettily and pouted. “We’ve heard about this trouble all week and we’re sick of it. There is no trouble, Father. To the north is Castle Abergwynn.”

“Aye,” their father agreed. “You are confused, daughter. The war’s over; the Welsh rebellion has been put to rest by Edward. Longshanks proved that he is the most powerful, and now we will pay homage to him whether we so wish it or not. ’Tis to the east where our enemies lie.”

Glyn, obviously pleased that their father doubted Morgana, grinned prettily. “Perhaps you should chant a spell for us, Morgana, or make the mark of a cock upon the dirt to keep us safe from evil spirits.”

“Should I, now?” Morgana’s gaze rested on Glyn’s fair face. “’Tis said that the mark of the cock will cause ugly spots on the face of blond maidens who pretend to be virgins but have already lain with men.”

“Morgana!” Meredydd declared.

Glyn drew in a quick breath, and Morgana, eyebrows lifted, asked, “Would those spots cause you reason to worry, sister?”

“Father, hush her tongue!” Glyn screeched.

“That is enough,” Daffyd ordered.

“As for evil spirits, the only one in this castle is you!” Morgana mumbled around a mouthful of jellied egg.

“No more!” Daffyd, with a wave of his hand, dismissed both of his daughters as well as his son. “I’ll not have my dinner ruined by this petty bickering. Glyn, you are not to keep company with servants and gossip about your sister. And, Morgana” —his eyes, duplicates of her own green orbs, held hers— “you will be kind to your sister.” His harsh tone softened. “I will hear more about this trouble when you feel it.”

“Aye, Father,” Morgana said, willing herself not to shoot a satisfied look in her sister’s direction. With a quick prayer, she left the table and hurried through the great hall with Wolf at her heels.

Outside, the sky was blue and the sc

ent of herbs from the garden wafted on the spring air. Morgana ran across the wet grass of the bailey to one of the huts within the castle walls.

“Berthilde!” she called as she hurried into the darkened interior. The familiar odors of beeswax and tallow enveloped her like a favorite cloak.

An old woman, her back humped with age, her skin wrinkled, smiled when she spied Morgana. “Do not tell me you wish more candles,” Berthilde said with a soft laugh, “and keep the beast out of here.”

“Wolf, stay!” Morgana ordered, then turned back to Berthilde. “Aye. I need candles, but only four.”

“Your father wishes them?”

Morgana shifted from one foot to the other. She did not want to lie, yet she had to have the scented tapers. “Nay, my mother needs them — for her chamber and the bower.”