Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“I need someone to take command of Abergwynn. My family is here, as is your bride. You’ll stay and protect—”

“But I’m going with you,” Morgana protested, cutting him off. “That’s why you brought me here. To find Logan.”

“He’s been found. There’s no point in putting your life in danger.” Garrick, seeing the protest forming on her lips, let go of his cousin and advanced on Morgana. “I’ll not have any Wenlock blood spilled over this. I made a promise to your father, and I intend to keep it.”

“But—”

Strahan’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “Do as the baron wishes,” he ordered.

“Make no mistake, Morgana,” Garrick said, his eyes blazing. “You are to stay here, take your lessons from Clare, and begin planning your wedding.” Behind him, resting a shoulder in the doorway, Strahan had the nerve to smile.

Morgana wanted to scream. She’d been cooped up in this castle for far too long and this was her chance to be free and to help bring the boy back to Abergwynn. The thought of preparing for a wedding to Strahan — oh, Mother Mary, her knees nearly buckled.

“You’ll be wed a fortnight from the day we return,” Garrick said.

She thought there was a flicker of sadness in his gaze, but it quickly disappeared and she wondered if her own foolish heart had tricked her into believing that he regretted her marriage to his cousin.

“What if you don’t find your son? What if I have a vision and know him to be somewhere else?”

Garrick’s cruel lips lifted at one corner. “Your visions come conveniently, don’t they, witch? For over a week you see nothing, but now, when a simple farmer swears he’s seen my boy, you’re jumping at shadows, seeing a traitor around every corner in this castle, thinking you’ll see a vision of my son’s whereabouts.” He touched her lightly, his fingers curling in one dark strand of her hair. “You know, Morgana of Wenlock, I don’t believe in your powers at all. I don’t think you’re a sorceress. I think the stories about you have been embellished over the years. Yea, perhaps you found a person, maybe even felt a storm brewing. But your witchcraft is a pitiful thing and probably doesn’t exist.”

“I don’t believe in witchcraft!” she cried, heat rising in her cheeks. What was he doing?

“Good. Neither do I. I was a fool to let Strahan talk me into bringing you here. If he wants to marry you, well enough, but I don’t need a woman muddying the waters while I ride to battle.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out the door. Strahan, after casting a bemused glance in her direction, followed Garrick, and Morgana was left fuming, her fists clenched in rage, in the middle of Garrick’s chamber. Blackheart! Fool! Beast of Abergwynn!

The vision came less than an hour later. Still angry, she stormed outside, talking to no one, not even bending down to pet Wolf between his ears. She was too furious. In the bailey she lifted her face, allowing the salty breeze to touch her skin and tangle her hair. Flint-colored clouds were beginning to gather, and the laundress, muttering beneath her breath, ran from the castle and began snatching the linens from the ground.

The farmer’s old nag pricked up his ears and whinnied, his dusty hide quivering in fear. Wolf began to pace restlessly around her skirts, a series of low growls rumbling in his throat.

“Shh,” Morgana said instinctively, but she, too, felt the change in temperature, the gathering of the storm. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she held herself and closed her eyes for only a second as the wind whipped her tunic close to her body. In that brief instant she saw death. Cold and black and shadowy, death was stalking. Who or what she could not tell. The vision was blurry and filled with vague images. Her insides froze as, within her mind, she observed a small hand — a child’s plump hand — reaching into water where golden silk lay under the ripples.

“Please, God,” she whispered, knowing the hand belonged to Garrick’s son, “let me see the boy.” She fell to her knees. “Tell me that he’s safe—” But as quickly as the vision had appeared, it vanished, and she blinked against the sunlight, trying to peek through the ominous clouds.

Desolate, she climbed to her feet. What good were her visions if she could not help the boy? If she could not ease Garrick’s troubled mind?

In the outer bailey the soldiers were gathering — Garrick’s war party. A wagon was loaded, the horses saddled, and weapons clanked over the jokes and laughter of men about to partake of an adventure. For as serious as their mission was, they were excited and eager to get on with it.

The first few drops of rain began to spatter the ground. Morgana turned toward the castle and saw him. Dressed in dark leather, impatience radiating from his every movement, Garrick strode across the inner bailey and toward the gate.

“Wait!” she cried, dashing across the grass, disregarding the drizzle that ran down her face and neck. “Please, Garrick, you must listen to me!” She didn’t care who saw her, and she ignored the stares of the carpenters and gardeners who gaped at her. She wanted to fling herself into Garrick’s arms and beg him to take her with him, to wrap her arms around him and hear the steadying beat of his heart, for she feared that the death was meant for him. She didn’t know how this vision fit with the first image she’d had of Garrick as the warrior from the north who would bring the downfall of Wenlock, she knew only that she cared for him, more deeply than she should, perhaps, and that she was sick with worry for his safety as well as for the safety of his child.

“What is it now?” he demanded harshly, though a ribbon of tenderness floated across his face.

“You must let me come with you. I — I saw something…” Her words were tumbling out too fast, and she was holding on to his sleeve, her wet face upturned to his.

Garrick’s gut knotted, and before he knew what he was doing one of his fists knotted in her hair. He nearly drew her head to his and kissed those passionate red lips, but before his lust took control of his mind, he restrained himself. “You had a vision.”

“Aye.”

“Now?” he asked skeptically. “After all this time?”

“I cannot control when it will happen.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and he let loose the silken rope of her hair. “What did you see, witch?” he taunted, his mouth turning suddenly cruel. “Another vision of death?”

“Yea, and—”