Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“But find the boy,” Morgana couldn’t help muttering under her breath.

“Above all else.” Grasping her tunic around her as if she felt a chill, Meredydd hurried along the hallway to her own chamber.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to find Logan, Morgana thought as she hastened into her room. She started when the heavy door clunked as it closed behind her. If she could conjure the boy up this very instant, she would do just that. But ’twas not as easy as casting a spell and making the child appear.

She kicked her boots against the wall. Glyn, sleeping peacefully, snorted at the sound, but didn’t wake up, as if she were indeed resting with the guiltless conscience of a saint. Perhaps she was more God-fearing than Morgana believed.

On the foot of Morgana’s bed lay a bundle of clothing and a toy, a chunk of wood whittled into the shape of a boat. Morgana ran her fingers over the tiny ship. So this little piece of yew had belonged to Maginnis’s lad. Oh, that she could reach him. Was it even possible? Well, why not try? She walked to the open window and felt the breath of the wind against her face. Closing her eyes, she held the smooth toy to her chest and forced her mind to be free. “Logan, please call to me,” she whispered, but she heard no response, nor did she see even a faint image. “Please,” she called again, knowing in her heart that her attempt was futile. Again she waited and again heard nothing.

Still clutching the toy, she knelt by her bed and sent up a small prayer before sliding between the linen sheets and closing her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep, for sleep would bring the morning, and too many worries spun round in her head. To calm herself, she absently rubbed the tiny ship’s bow. Finally she dozed, and the old, familiar sounds of Tower Wenlock — the mice scurrying through the rushes, the wind whispering through the inner bailey, the soft tread of sentries on the tower walls — soothed her into sleep.

How long she dozed, she knew not. The moon, hidden by thick clouds, cast only shadowy light through the window as she opened her eyes and heard the crying … a child’s frightened wail.

Morgana rose slowly. She heard Glyn’s even breathing and the rush of wind as it passed through the open window. In the distance an owl hooted softly, and the fragrance of lilacs from the garden swept into the bedchamber.

Grabbing for the dagger she no longer had, Morgana rose, the skin on the back of her neck prickling in fear. Oh, that she hadn’t lost her knife to Maginnis! As she stood, something tumbled to the floor with a sharp thunk. Morgana jumped before realizing that she’d knocked the toy ship into the rushes.

From the foot of the bed Wolf growled low in his throat, and Morgana froze. Who or what had disturbed her? She glanced around the chamber, but even in the dark, she could see that all was well. Glyn was snoring softly, sleeping with the peace of the self-righteous, and the door to the chamber was shut. Morgana’s boots were just where she’d cast them.

She stole to the window where cool wind caressed her face and blew her hair out of her eyes. From the sill she surveyed the darkened bailey, seeing the shifting shadows on the grass, reflections of thick clouds moving slowly across the moon. The sentries were posted, alert as they walked with the extra guards Maginnis had brought to the castle.

She felt his presence, knew that the baron was somewhere in the bailey. Did the man never sleep? Squinting, she stared into the darkened corners, trying to see her enemy — the man who had betrothed her to that snake Hazelwood.

She was about to turn back to bed when she heard the crying again. Soft. Filled with terror.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated only on the noise, hoping for a vision, for she suspected that the pitiful sound belonged to Maginnis’s son.

“Where are you?” Morgana whispered.

But the noise died to a pitiful sob, then faded.

“I can help. Please…”

The sound was gone and Morgana, her flesh chilled, opened her eyes to see an owl circling above the well. Perhaps she’d only heard the cry of a night bird stalking prey.

“God help me,” she prayed. “And be with the baron’s son.”

Garrick couldn’t sleep. Too much time had been wasted already, and the thought of spending hours doing nothing to find his boy grated on him.

This entire trip was a fool’s journey. Morgana would be more trouble than she was worth. As for her powers, Garrick had seen no evidence of them. In fact, what he had witnessed was a spoiled daughter who acted like a man, took no interest in womanly duties, and possessed the tongue of a harpy.

He kicked at t

he dirt in the inner bailey, relying on the poor moonlight to be his guide when he heard a night bird swooping down from the heavens. He glanced up, and his gaze was snagged by the figure of a woman in a high window of the tower. He had no doubt the woman was Morgana. Her skin was as pale as alabaster and her hair, long and flowing, caught in the breeze. His heart kicked.

Who was this woman? Enchantress? Witch? Sorceress? Or was she just a beautiful woman whom his cousin Strahan had tricked him into fetching for him?

He couldn’t help wondering, as he stared up at her in the moonlight, aware of her ethereal beauty, if he hadn’t been played for a fool.

Chapter Eight

“Damned tough skin,” Cook muttered, her fleshy arms straining at her task as she flayed an eel. A fire burned hot in the pit, and dried spices and iron pots hung from the ceiling. The eel was strung from a nail in the rafter, the slippery skin nearly pulled off, the innards cast aside.

“Well, m’lady, up early, ain’t ye?” Cook asked, exposing the few teeth she had left as she smiled over her shoulder at Morgana. A hefty woman who liked her own fare, Cook had always allowed her in the kitchen, perhaps because Morgana was quick with an arrow and oft brought in a fat pigeon or pheasant when other bowmen had failed. “Y’re soon off on a great adventure.” Cook chuckled, her great shoulders shaking, as she washed the meat clear with water, then chopped savory, thyme, marjoram, and parsley into the yolks of hard-cooked eggs. She glanced up from her work and scowled. “Tarren! Mind the fire now, will ye?” Clucking her tongue she took the long fish from its hook, laid it open on the scarred table, and stuffed her egg and herb concoction into the eel’s slit belly. “Well, we’ll be missin’ ye, m’lady” —she frowned at Wolf as he positioned himself at the door of the kitchen, ears pricked forward, his tongue licking his black lips— “though I won’t mind that beast stayin’ away from the fires!” With skilled hand she yanked the eel’s skin back onto its flesh and sewed the cavity closed. “Here, Tarren, it’s ready to roast. Mind ye don’t set the spit too low. I’ll not be servin’ the great lord burned fish!” With one eye on the younger woman as Tarren hoisted the eel over the fire, Cook wiped her hands, then glanced again at Morgana. “I’ve somethin’ for ye, m’lady.” She motioned to a drawer and took out a sack. “My best herbs, those that you won’t be findin’ at Abergwynn, I’ll wager, and old Berthilde stopped by with some candles, as she knows ye’ve a use for them.” The cloth sack smelled of tangy herbs and beeswax. “Ah, but we’ll be missin’ ye,” she added, smiling though her gaze shimmered a bit. “Curse the damned pepper,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “Gives a woman fits. ‘Ere ye go, now, take these with ye. Ye’ll be needin’ ‘em for findin’ the boy, unless I miss my guess.”

“M’lady,” a sweet voice chanted, and Morgana turned to find Springan, her small boy in tow, scurrying through the door toting a load of firewood. Sourly, she dropped the sticks into a bin and dusted her hands of the dirt and moss. “Sir Daffyd has given me the honor of becoming your maid,” she announced, her eyes slitting a bit.

“My maid?” Morgana repeated, stunned. “But I’ve no need of a maid.”