Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Morgana closed the door and sagged against it. Her heart was racing, and a sheen of sweat moistened the back of her neck. In all of her dreams she would never have imagined that these two men she detested would be arguing over her. Closing her eyes, she slowly let out her breath and tried to calm down. In the darkness, her face was suffused with color and her cheeks were hot to the touch of her fingers. To think she’d kissed Lord Garrick, the brute himself, and behaved like a common wench! She’d wanted to feel his

hands upon her. She’d opened willingly to his kisses, wanting more, feeling tingling sensations that seemed to center deep in her womanhood. It had taken all her strength to push his hand away when he started to touch her breasts. Even now the thought of his flesh against hers brought a tide of warmth to her skin. Lord help me!

She had to forget his kiss, forget the wanton heat that had swept through her blood. Mayhap it was just the night, the fear and excitement of being alone in the bailey with him. But deep in her heart she knew, she feared that this one passionate kiss was just the beginning. Angrily she pulled her tunic over her head and climbed between the linen sheets. But as she lay in the darkened room, she wondered what it would feel like to have Lord Garrick in bed beside her. Would his kiss forever cause flames to lick through her bloodstream, or had she responded more from surprise than from desire?

She pulled the covers over her head. How could she conjure up such vile but strangely pleasant thoughts? Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed sleep to come and denied that she felt any attraction to Garrick of Abergwynn. But her wayward mind spun free, and she imagined herself kissing Garrick as they lay in a fragrant field of clover, their bodies without clothes, perspiration molding them together, their arms and legs entwined, and warmth of the Welsh sun on their bare backs and legs.

The vivid picture disturbed her, for it was so like a vision that for a moment she thought she’d seen her future. Her breathing stopping at the thought. A future? Here? With the baron? Was her gift playing tricks upon her? Hadn’t her grandmother foretold that she was to marry Strahan of Hazelwood? Startled, her heart suddenly thundering, she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. As she stared at the moon through her window, she wound a finger in her hair and swallowed nervously. Nothing good could come of her attraction to Garrick, and yet a small part of her decided that being a guest within the walls of Abergwynn was not such a curse after all.

The next day she expected to see Garrick at dawn. She thought that before she could wake and climb into her clothes, she’d be roused by a tremendous pounding at her door. She would find Garrick, his black mood consuming him again, impatient and demanding that she find his son or suffer the consequences.

However, Morgana spent the morning at Mass under Lady Clare’s watchful eye and at breakfast, where once again Clare was nearby. Garrick was seated far away, as if he wanted to keep her at a great distance. After the meal, Lady Clare walked her through the castle, showing her the buttery, pantry, and scullery and introducing her to the servants in each of the quarters. The maids and pages were more than polite, curtsying and smiling kindly, but Morgana caught the glint of amusement in their eyes, the curiosity in their glances. The hefty cook crossed her bosom as if to ward off evil spirits as Morgana left the kitchen and followed Clare upstairs. Only a large, silent woman named Habren, who seemed to be in charge of the rest of the servants, gave her so much as a kind but grudging “Hullo.”

They passed two servant girls carrying laundry on the stairs. “’Tis bad luck to have a witch in the castle,” the tall one whispered loud enough for Morgana to hear.

“Mayhap she’s not a witch,” the second servant, a buxom girl with slanted eyes, said.

“Then she’s a heathen. Same thing, if you’re askin’ me.”

“Enough!” Clare ordered, whirling at the top step. “Now, mind your duties and quit wagging your tongues. This is Lady Morgana, and you’re to treat her as you would any lord or lady who is a guest in this castle!”

“Yes, m’lady,” they said in quick unison.

Clare turned again. “Come, Morgana.”

Morgana gritted her teeth and held her head high as she climbed the remaining steps.

In the sewing room, women skilled with needle and thread were cutting, sewing, and embroidering gowns and linens. Ells, great lengths of cloth, were being cut and sewn into tunics, mantles, and cloaks. Morgana had never seen so many different fabrics in rich hues of scarlet, saffron, and purple. At Tower Wenlock there were only two skilled seamstresses and never more than four or five ells of cloth.

A tall, thin blond woman named Mertrice was working on a mantle trimmed in ermine, and behind her, rabbit, beaver, and fox hides were piled carefully in the corner and kept under the sharp eye of the head seamstress. Again, the girls working so effortlessly with needle and thread were polite upon meeting Morgana, their smiles of greeting seemingly sincere. But as they resumed their work, Morgana saw the sly looks cast from the corners of their eyes.

Morgana was thankful to leave the room and sweep down the stairs after Clare. Outside, the sun was shining, and only a few clouds floated across the sky. Morgana felt a small sense of freedom as Clare pointed out the dovecote and beehives, in which she obviously took great pride. They stopped at a bench in the garden between the mulberry trees and climbing vines. Roses were beginning to leaf while gillyflowers and marigolds were promising blooms.

“Garrick tells me I am to make you into a lady,” Clare observed. Her brows were drawn together as if the thought were perplexing. “He also mentioned that I’m to do the same with your sister.”

Morgana brightened at the thought of Glyn. As miserable as Glyn was, at least she was kin, and Morgana missed her sister as she missed all of her family. “You’ll have less trouble with Glyn,” Morgana predicted.

“Why is that?”

“Glyn wants nothing more than to marry a wealthy baron and run a large keep of her own.” A shadow played on the bailey, and Morgana watched a hawk circling overhead before it turned and dived swiftly to the field on the other side of the castle walls, away from her view.

Clare brushed a tiny gnat from her sleeve and frowned. “And this — marriage to a baron and a running castle — is not what you want, Morgana?” Clare’s large gray eyes were kind, her expression more worried than disapproving, and yet Morgana was not sure she could confide in the sister of the baron.

“I am to marry Sir Strahan,” she said quietly. “It has been arranged by my father and Lord Garrick.”

“Had you no say in the matter?”

“I was told my own wants were not important.” She lifted a shoulder as if accepting her fate while inside she burned at the injustice of it all.

“Strahan is a good man” Clare pointed out. “He does need a little straightening out, but a strong woman will guide him well — as long as he does not realize that you are guiding him.” She frowned thoughtfully as if she understood Morgana’s reticence. “He, of course, thinks only a man can make decisions — he is much like his father. But my aunt was a wise woman, and though Uncle Henry thought he made the decisions and ran the estates, it was her hand that was gently pushing him to make the correct choices. When she died, he married a foolish younger woman who knew no more about running a castle than she did about drawing a sword. Eventually they lost everything. Had Aunt Ellen lived, Uncle Henry would never have lost Castle Hazelwood to Osric McBrayne.” Clare rubbed her fingers together. “Strahan will treat you well. He will see that you are provided for and kept safe and that you want for nothing.”

Except love, Morgana thought, for love was a notion of the foolish. Troubadours and minstrels could sing of love, and poets could spin tales of lovers whose hearts beat as one, but, in truth, did love really exist? No, she decided, there was no true love, not in real life.

Clare sighed, and her gaze was focused beyond Morgana and over the grass of the inner bailey toward the chapel. Her hands fidgeted nervously in the wrinkles of her skirt. “I’ve heard the most important reason you returned here with Garrick. Aside from marrying Strahan, you’re here to help my brother find his son.”

Morgana felt suddenly uncomfortable. She watched the bees circle and buzz near the hives. “Aye, but so far I’ve not helped him much.”

“It may be an impossible task.”