Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

He poured himself a cup of mead. Somehow he’d find a way to appease his cousin while allowing Morgana her freedom. That settled in his mind, he turned his thoughts to the present. If he could keep his breeches on and his desire at a level he could control, he could concentrate on finding Logan. Lifting the cup, he swallowed a long draft of the warm mead and felt the familiar heat that inflamed the back of his throat and scorched a path all the way to his belly. He would drown himself in mead, if need be.

The witch and her sorcery be damned!

Garrick didn’t touch her again. In fact, he barely spoke a word to her or acknowledged her the next day. He drove the small company without respite, and by nightfall the men were grumbling among themselves and the horses were lathered, muddy, and dead tired.

Morgana tended to Luck, offering him an extra handful of grain, which the stallion munched greedily, his thick lips brushing her palm for every last kernel. She brushed him long and hard, content to tend to the animal rather than join the men. Never had she felt more alone — a single woman among men with blood in their hearts.

“You’re a good one,” she told Luck, fondly patting his muscular shoulders. The horse nickered softly, and Morgana smiled for the first time that day. The night was warmer than last, and the first stars were beginning to wink above the trees. Clouds drifted lazily across the sky. “Aye, better than any other destrier or palfrey bred in that wretched Abergwynn,” she added, enjoying her scathing comment about Garrick’s home. She threw the brush she’d been using into an empty pail. It clattered against the metal, startling some of the horses. “Damn Abergwynn,” Morgana swore.

At the mention of Garrick’s castle, the wind picked up, dancing featherlight and ice cold through her hair despite the mild night.

Morgana shivered and heard the lonesome cry of a wolf. Was it an omen — her thoughts of Abergwynn and the response of nature? Or was she imagining things, putting too much belief in the magic everyone else assumed flowed through her veins? She thought she heard the crack of a whip and the sharp cry of a soul in torment, but when she stood perfectly still, she heard nothing other than the swish of horses’ tails, a soft nicker now and again, and the muted laughter of the men drinking at the fire.

They’d camped in a glen where the hills gently sloped down to the valley floor. Some of the men were becoming disenchanted with Garrick’s quest. She’d heard the murmurs and whispers behind his back, and yet no one dared broach the subject that wasn’t far from anyone’s mind: how long would they be asked to follow a trail that was colder than a dead fish — if there was any trail to follow at all? More and more the men were beginning to believe Will Farmer to be a fool who had risked Garrick’s wrath for a few silver coins and a horse that the witch had easily stolen from him. Sir Randolph muttered that they were on a fool’s mission, and Sir Henry only shook his head sadly, as if he felt concerned for his baron’s state of mind.

She ate alone, barely tasting the leftover venison before she slipped between the furs of her makeshift bed. She was tired, her bones and muscles ached, and sh

e welcomed sleep, since she’d spent the previous night remembering Garrick’s embrace, seeing it over and over in her mind. She’d tossed and turned for hours, her body on fire. Deep inside, she ached, feeling an emptiness she’d never known existed.

But tonight she’d have no more of those wickedly wanton thoughts. No, by all that was holy, she’d sleep and keep her mind pure, she told herself. But try as she might, her mind continually strayed to Garrick. She knew he had taken the first watch again and wasn’t yet sleeping. Though she’d spread her blankets far from the fire, beneath the protective branches of a willow tree, she felt as if Garrick were staring at her.

Eventually all the men had rolled themselves in their robes and settled down near the fire. Snores and groans replaced their loud jokes and hearty laughter. The campfire burned steadily as one or two of Garrick’s men stood guard.

Morgana, from sheer exhaustion, fell into fitful slumber, her mind not yet settled, though her body craved sleep. She tossed and turned as images filled her brain — vivid and dark pictures that would not let her rest. Golden silk rippled beneath the surface of moving water, and a small child’s cry echoed through her dreams. Morgana chased after the boy’s screams. She ran through a blackened forest, and her feet caught on the gnarled roots of ancient oak trees. Hoisting her skirt so that she could run faster, she nearly stumbled, and the trail gave way to a wildly thrashing river where gold streamers floated beneath the surface like gilded eels. She heard the boy and caught a glimpse of him on the far shore. But in gazing at the boy, she caught sight of the countryside beyond him, where Castle Abergwynn, charred and skeletal, stood, its banner no longer showing the colors of the House of Maginnis. A new flag snapped loudly, waving bright colors against a steel-colored sky. Blood red, the banner bore the emblem of a black sword and triangle pointing toward the center of the earth, as if it could burrow straight to hell. Morgana screamed and tried to run. Despite the symbol of death on the flag, she plunged into the icy depths of the river and tried to reach the boy. Strips of gold silk knotted around her wrists and ankles, pulling her down beneath the surface. Her lungs burned for air. She struggled against the gold ribbons that wound tighter and tighter, like a fisherman’s net, as she tried to reach Logan. Her head broke the surface and she gulped air, screaming to the child. “Logan!” she cried, hoping her voice wasn’t drowned by the rush of water and praying that he could hear her as the golden cords drew her down to the black bottom of the river.

“Morgana!”

Her eyes flew open and she started to scream. A huge hand covered her mouth. “Shhh!” Silvery eyes glittered over her.

Relief flooded through her, and she let out a sigh as Garrick slowly withdrew his hand.

“Quiet, witch,” he whispered against her ear.

She nearly cried. The dream was so real, so vivid, her terror so complete, that she threw herself against him and clung to his neck in gratitude for being awakened. She held back sobs and fought the sting of hot tears.

Garrick’s breath ruffled her hair. Strong arms surrounded her, and she was calmed by the steady beat of his heart. He smelled of leather and smoke and musk.

“I saw Logan. I heard him crying.”

His muscles tightened. “’Twas only a dream.”

“Aye, but so real.”

Garrick let his hands fall to his sides. “Tell me.”

As she caught her breath and her heartbeat slowed to the point that she could speak without gasping, she described the nightmare, the stark images of the boy, the burned castle, the golden ropes, and the death flag.

Garrick, on his knees beside her, listened quietly. His visage was grim, his eyes betraying a pang of grief. “You think my son’s dead,” he said, the tortured words sticking in his throat.

“I think he’s in danger.”

With a snort of impatience, Garrick said, “I know that much.”

“And you,” she said quietly, more certain of the meaning of her dream than before. “You’re in danger as well.”

“Is that the only song you know? First you were afraid of me, sure that I was the danger from the north. Am I right?”

She couldn’t deny it and didn’t bother trying.