Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

For the first time, Morgana believed him. Few things would daunt a man so strong, but the loss of a child could certainly cripple even the most powerful warrior.

“Has your wife agreed that you should seek me out?”

“My wife is dead, struck down in the birthing of Logan,” he said, a quiet rage contorting his face. The forest seemed to darken around them. “The very God you pray to took her in the giving of my son.”

“We do not always understand the way God works.”

“Aye,” Garrick muttered, his eyes gleaming angrily. “Nor do I any longer pay him homage.”

“Mayhap that is why he has taken your son.”

“This is not God’s doing,” Garrick snarled. “It is the work of my enemies, and you, Morgana, will help me find out who would steal the boy. Logan is all I have left.” Wasting no more time, Garrick grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly back to the camp.

She stumbled several times, but he caught her, dragging her along the path, uncaring that brambles and twigs plucked at her tunic and snatched at wayward strands of her hair. Oh, if only she had her dagger! She would gladly show him how well she could use it before she escaped to the tower.

As if reading her mind, he glanced at her and smiled grimly. “If you are so anxious to return to your father, we will not wait for dawn. We shall go now.”

Together? No! Morgana tried to wrench her arm free, but the steely fingers would not release her. “I should return alone,” she argued.

“Nay. ’Tis time I met with Daffyd and we discussed your journey.”

“My journey?” she repeated, suddenly apprehensive.

“To Abergwynn.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “Nay, I’ll not—”

“You will, my lady,” Garrick assured her, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper arm.

“My father will not allow it!” she argued proudly, but felt the cloak of doom settle over her shoulders.

“He has no choice. ’Twould be my guess that Daffyd will gladly wash his hands of you. No doubt he would like to find someone to make a proper lady of you.”

“Is that what a baron does — spends his time teaching women to sew and weave?” she taunted.

He laugh

ed at her barb. “Nay, mistress, but there are many at Abergwynn who would do just that. Though, God’s truth, Clare has yet to turn a witch into a lady. ’Twill be a challenge for her.”

Terror seized Morgana. Castle Abergwynn was several days’ ride to the north, far away from the safety of Tower Wenlock. She would know no one there, save this tyrant of a lord who would have her do his bidding on a whim. The thought of his soldiers and their lust-filled gazes turned her blood to ice. Already Morgana did not like or trust Clare. Panic tore at her soul, and her heart began to slam against her chest.

Nay, she would not willingly go to the castle in the north. “I can do much here,” she said, hoping to reason with him.

“But much more at Abergwynn. ’Tis from there that Logan was stolen.”

“You saw him taken?”

“Nay.”

“And what of your guards?”

Garrick glowered down at her. “They know nothing,” he muttered, half pushing her into the clearing and calling to the same sentry who had eyed her earlier. “The witch requests to return to Tower Wenlock before the morning. I shall take her there myself. You, Sir Randolph, will secure the camp until dawn at which time you will continue on to the tower.”

The sentry nodded curtly. “Aye, my lord.”

Morgana couldn’t believe her ears. Was this man out of his mind? Baron or no, he couldn’t just ride to the castle and expect to be let in at this hour of the night. Aside from the sentries, most of the inhabitants of the castle were fast asleep.

Garrick ordered Randolph to fetch his horse. The knight quickly did his bidding and within seconds, it seemed to Morgana, the black beast came prancing and snorting to them.