Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Whose death was it?”

“I’m not sure, m’lord,” she admitted, horrified that his gentleness had faded so quickly and been replaced by a scoffing mockery that glittered like hard gems in his gaze.

“Now you want to come with me.”

“Yea!”

“So that you can escape?”

She felt as if she’d been slapped, but she swallowed back her pride and clung to him. “Nay, Garrick, please. Listen. I want only what is

best for you and Logan. I could help. I can ride and hunt, and I’m as good as your men with a bow and arrow. Mayhap I’ll have another vision. One that’s clearer. One that will lead you to your son and will help you avoid a trap.”

His fingers surrounded her arm, and she felt the leashed strength in his grip, as if he wanted to crush her bones to dust. “You have been here a fortnight, Morgana. In all that time you have been nothing but grief to me,” he whispered harshly. “Now that I finally might find my boy, you want to ride with me and set all my men on edge.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t need a woman to take my mens’ minds off their duty. You stay here with Strahan. You’re of no use to me now.”

She stumbled backward as he shoved her aside, and she felt wounded to her very soul.

He strode swiftly to the outer bailey where his men waited. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, he mounted his steed, galloped to the head of the procession, and rode away, his small band of soldiers riding fast behind him.

Morgana wanted to crumple to the ground, but she felt the gaze of Strahan upon her, knew he was watching her every move. She stiffened her spine and marched back to the castle, past Strahan and Ware, and through the great door where Springan, her mouth a tight little bow, swept her a knowing look.

Trying to hold on to her pride, she hurried up the stairs, feeling a fool, and all the while Garrick’s taunting words floated on the wind behind her: You’re of no use to me now.

The words reverberated through her head like a chant, over and over, hurting her more each time she remembered them.

“Damn you, Garrick of Abergwynn,” she whispered, kicking at the rushes and plotting her escape.

Chapter Fifteen

“Fool,” Morgana muttered, but she couldn’t still the traitorous beating of her heart as she watched Garrick and the column of riders disappear into the forest. Even when he was out of sight, her heart thumped a trifle recklessly as she leaned against the smooth stones of the windowsill.

She was glad there was news of Logan, and she prayed that the boy was safe, but as for Garrick, she was furious with him. He’d left her with strict orders not to leave the castle, and she felt more like a prisoner than ever. As the last of the column disappeared into the copse of oak and pine, Morgana again felt a premonition of doom race up her spine. Her skin crawled, and for a second she saw Garrick’s death as surely as if an arrow had pierced his heart.

“Talk to me,” she beseeched the wind. Closing her eyes and emptying her mind, she waited for words to echo inside her head.

The voice was as soft as the drizzling rain falling gently from the sky: There will be death. It comes to the House of Wenlock from the north.

Perturbed, she responded, “This I already know. But why now? Why does the death come now?”

Because of the brave one’s impatience.

“What of Abergwynn? Will Abergwynn suffer, too? What of Garrick — is he friend or foe? And his son? Where is Logan?”

Again the vision of water — a brook with a bed of slick black stones and the gurgle of the current as the steam splashed and pooled. There were trees and voices — men’s voices — and deeper in the shadows of the brook, where the current eddied and flowed, a scrap of yellow cloth floating under the ripples.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Morgana whispered, feeling the breath of the wind against her cheeks. “Please, tell me—”

“Talking to yourself again?”

Morgana started at the sound of Glyn’s voice. Wolf growled, and Morgana gritted her teeth, trying to hold on to her patience. Her fingers curled over the stones of the windowsill. Didn’t Glyn know this was serious? Didn’t she realize that Morgana was only trying to help Garrick? Turing slowly, biting back her anger, she found her sister standing in the chamber doorway, her expression bemused, a forgotten mirror in one hand.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still trying to call up some witchcraft.” Walking warily into the room, never letting her gaze stray too far from the wolf dog, Glyn rubbed her arms as if suddenly chilled by the dampness of the rain that seeped through the windows. “It’s a little late for sorcery now, don’t you think?” Yet her eyes betrayed her nervousness as she glanced rapidly from the animal to Morgana. She couldn’t resist teasing her sister, but obviously she was uneasy.

“I’d just like to help the baron,” Morgana said, glancing once again at the woods into which the war party had disappeared.