Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Morgana settled into the tub of hot water and couldn’t help sighing. After three days of riding, her back and legs were sore and every muscle in her body ached.

“Is it not lovely here?” Springan asked, handing her a chuck of scented soap and gazing upon the guest chamber that was to be Morgana’s. Twice the size of the room she had shared with Glyn, this chamber was warmed by its own hearth. Several windows were cut into the whitewashed walls, and bright tapestries hung near the bed. The rushes on the floor smelled of lilacs and lavender, and the carved wooden bed was piled high with pillows and fur coverlets.

“Aye, ’tis lovely,” Morgana agreed, though in her heart she would rather have been at Wenlock with her family. This grand room with its own antechamber for dressing lacked the cozy familiarity of her own home.

She dressed with Springan’s help, stepping into a gown of crimson damask that buttoned to the neck with tiny pearls. The sleeves were gathered wide at the shoulder and tapered to thin bands at the wrist, and her hair was braided to the nape of her neck, where the black curls fell in wild abandon. Springan approached with a wimple, but Morgana waved it away.

“But, m’lady—” Springan said.

“I’m no longer my father’s daughter, obliged to do as he wishes.” She watched Springan put the wimple back on a shelf in the antechamber. In truth, her father hadn’t insisted upon the bloody wimple at Wenlock, and she wasn’t going to change her ways. “I’ll wear my hair as I choose, and no one will much care, as I am considered a witch by most.” Irritated by Springan’s awe of Abergwynn and her constant fussing, Morgana was anxious to get rid of the girl. “Go now. You must have other duties.”

“Aye, but I promised Lady Meredydd that I would look after you.”

“And you have. ’Tis time for you to get ready for the feast, for there is sure to be a celebration now that Garrick has returned. Besides, you probably have much to do to settle in yourself.”

Springan argued no further, as she was eager to meet the other servants and find her own quarters.

Garrick came for her. Grim-faced as usual he, too, had bathed, and the beard stubble that had sprouted from his jaw had disappeared. His surcoat, the color of a verdant forest, was thick and decorated with strips of leather, his mantle a rich sable brown.

“’Tis time you met the household and took your place near Strahan,” he said when she opened the door.

Her eyes met his, and for an instant she noticed a glimmer of something deeper than his usual disinterest in his silvery gaze. “Must I?”

> He cocked a thick black brow. “You are not anxious to meet with your betrothed?”

Morgana hesitated, but then decided that she’d best say what was on her mind. “I’ll not marry Strahan, Lord Garrick. Know this now: I’ll do what I can to find your son. Aye, I’ll stay here and learn the lessons that my father insists I have, but I’ll not marry anyone so vile as Strahan of Hazelwood.”

“Vile? Strahan is my cousin, one of my finest knights.”

“Then I despair for your army.”

He rubbed a thumb beneath his jaw thoughtfully, and Morgana’s eyes were drawn to the seductive movement of the pad of his thumb scraping his skin. “Strahan has time and time again proved himself in battle — for Abergwynn and for England. He saved my life not once but twice and has demonstrated his allegiance to Edward. He has even offered to go with Longshanks to fight the Scots if need be, and as we both know, there’s always trouble brewing to the north.”

“Aye, I have seen so.”

“Ahh, the vision,” he said stepping close to her. “The vision wherein I strike down all that you love.” She trembled at his words, though his tone was soft. “They think I’ve lost my mind, you know. My servants and men. Even my family. They think I’m daft to have gone for you. Some believe that you are a witch and will bring a curse upon Castle Abergwynn. Still others consider me a fool, charmed by a beautiful woman who is leading me on a merry chase. Others claim your powers don’t exist at all, that you are a fraud—”

“I’ve never claimed—”

“And yet still others think you actually talk to God.”

“But I have not—” she began to protest.

He held up a hand to silence her. “Most of my people — yea, and even my own kin — think I should bury my son’s memory and accept that he is dead.” He paced between Morgana and the window, where he stared into the gloaming that crept across the forests and fields. The sky was a hue of deep purple, and the land beginning to lie in shadow. The tension in Garrick’s shoulders was a physical pain as he thought about his child. “But I care not what others think. And I cannot accept that Logan’s dead.” His fingers curved over the stone sill of the window until his knuckles showed white with conviction. “For I believe in my heart that my son is alive. I do not believe in your powers, sorceress, for I’ve seen no evidence of your magic.” His brows drew down over his eyes. “But I will take the chance that you may have a gift, and I will suffer the humiliation of gossip by my men, and I will not give up until I know the answer. You,” he ordered, casting a look over his shoulder, “you will do what you have to do to help me.”

“My marriage to Sir Strahan will not bring back your boy.”

“You insult me and my castle.”

“As you’ve insulted me by keeping me prisoner!”

“Why can you not accept your fate?”

“For the same reason that you cannot accept yours!”

His hands opened and closed in frustration. “You try my patience, woman.”

“As you try mine, m’lord,” she tossed back, her green eyes flashing with emerald fire.