Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Where are you going?” Glyn asked, and Morgana, whose eyes had adjusted to the dim light, saw Glyn’s crown of blond hair move as she propped herself up on one elbow and yawned.

“I will be back soon.”

“You are defying Father.”

“I just need some air, sister.”

“You lie!”

“I will be back shortly, and I trust that you will not reveal that I am gone,” she said patiently, hoping Glyn would think their conversation a dream and fall quickly to sleep.

“Why shouldn’t I? You are out to practice the black arts, are you not?”

There was only one way to keep her quiet. Morgana stole across the room to her sister’s bed and, leaning over Glyn, whispered in a crafty voice, “Aye, sister, you have found me out. I go now to do that which is forbidden.”

Glyn’s eyes grew round in the darkness.

“It would be wise for you to pray,” Morgana added, sending up her own silent prayer for forgiveness for teasing her sister.

“Pr-pray for what?”

“That I don’t cast a spell upon you — a spell that could maim your beauty? Perhaps blacken your teeth or turn your hair the color of blood?”

Glyn’s hand flew to her mouth. “You would not!”

“No, I would not. Unless you do not keep my trust!”

“But Father forbade you!”

“Aye, and he will not know, now, will he?”

“You are wicked, Morgana, and evil! Father will punish you, and if he does not, then God will.”

“That is between God and me,” Morgana said. “Now, do I have your word?”

Glyn licked her lips and nodded, her pale hair reflecting silver in the moonglow. “Aye,” she whispered. “I will not betray you. Only please do not curse me.”

Morgana smiled in spite of herself. “I would not.” She turned to the wolf. “Keep Glyn here, Wolf. See that she escapes not.”

Glyn gasped in terror. “Do not leave me alone with—”

“Do not cross the wolf,” Morgana ordered her sister. “You yourself have called him a devil dog.”

“I will pray for your soul,” Glyn promised, trying her best to sound pious, though her voice trembled slightly.

“Do so.” But the thought of Glyn’s prayers only hastened Morgana toward her task. She often thought Glyn’s piety was convenient. Her younger sister did not seem so pure, as much as she wished to seem innocent. But Glyn’s devotion, or lack thereof, was not Morgana’s concern.

She was careful with the chamber door, for it sometimes creaked as she shoved it open. She glanced along the darkened hall. Running her fingers along the wall and counting her footsteps, she crept down the back steps and out the door to the bailey. The night watchmen were at their posts, but the fog, rolling in from the sea, was on her side as she hid in the shadows. She took the circular stairs in the western tower, where no sentinel stood. The soft leather of her boots barely scratched on the smooth stones as she climbed. At the top of the outer wall, she crouched, secured her rope, then lowered herself slowly, hand over hand, her feet braced on the smooth stones, to the outside and the grounds, which were high over the ocean. Leaving the rope dangling free, she walked carefully along the narrow path that zigzagged down the cliff face, her feet sliding on pebbles, for the way was dark, the fog a wet, misty blanket that clouded her vision as she followed the sound of surf pounding against the shore.

The briny scent of the ocean and the restless tide usually calmed her, but this night, knowing that she had disobeyed her father, deceived Berthilde, and threatened Glyn, she found no quietude in the sure movement of waves against the sand.

Walking to the edge of the sea, she waited, letting the fog wrap itself around her. The breath of the sea, cold and damp, brushed against her face. Morgana closed her eyes, envisioning the fog enveloping her, swirling counter-clockwise, forming a brilliant cocoon, protecting her and Tower Wenlock from the unknown enemy hiding in the mists.

When she opened her eyes again, she was soothed. Kneeling on the sand, she murmured, “Keep us safe, O Lord, from that danger which cometh from the north.”

With a stick of driftwood she drew a large circle in the sand. She placed dry tinder and driftwood sticks at the northern, eastern, western, and southern points of the circle, then placed a candle at each point. Using her flint, she carefully lit the candles, allowing the hot wax to drip onto the wood and chanting as she worked. “Nothing from the south can harm Tower Wenlock,” she intoned. After lighting the tinder, she watched the fire glow red, grabbed a burning stick, and strode to the westerly point. “Nothing from the west can harm Tower Wenlock.” Slowly she advanced to the north, lit the tinder, and said in a louder voice, “Nothing from the north can harm Tower Wenlock,” and finally at the easterly point, she intoned, “Nothing from the east can harm Tower Wenlock!” At that point, she ran back to the southerly point. Grabbing another burning stick, she hurled it into the air, sending golden sparks aloft to spray the ground. “Nothing from above can harm the tower.” When the stick fell, she picked it up, threw it hard on the ground, and watched the embers flash and sizzle in the fog. “And nothing from below can harm Tower Wenlock!”

Her spell accomplished, she cast her burning stick into the southerly fire and sat cross-legged on the sand in the middle of the circle. She felt the sea air shove her hood from her head and smelled the smoke as the four fires smoldered and burned.