Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Hey — wha’?”

“I want to speak to the baron of Abergwynn,” she yelled, her voice carrying on the wind.

The guard in the southerly tower shouted gruffly, “Who goes there?”

Morgana swallowed back her fear. Her small fists clenched. “’Tis I, Morgana of Wenlock. I need to speak to the baron.”

“Holy Christ, the witch has returned! Halt where you are! Advance no more!”

Morgana did as she was told, waiting, sweat gathering on her forehead though the night was cold and rain drizzled down her neck. She heard the rush of the wind and the battering of the sea against the shore. Cool breezes played with her hair and touched her cheeks, and the earth smelled damp. But she felt no joy in nature this night. Her heart pounded in dread, and she sent up prayer after prayer that her visions had been false, that the gates of Abergwynn would open and Garrick would appear. She trembled at the thought. Upon spying him she would run into his arms, confiding that she loved him, telling him she couldn’t live without him. Her heart nearly burst with the thought of all the vows of love she would make to him.

What would happen if he were already dead? She groaned inwardly and added another vow — a vow of vengeance. Enit’s knife pressed hard against her calf, and she hoped that the voice of the wind was strong.

She heard a commotion inside the castle walls — men’s voices, a horse whinnying, soldiers shouting, and above it all, with a loud rumble and clank of chains, the portcullis of Abergwynn rattling upward.

She braced herself, and yet when the outer bailey of the castle was visible through the open gate, her insides turned to ice.

Strahan of Hazelwood stood on the other side of the gate.

No! Oh, God, please don’t let me be too late! Dread clutched her in its icy grasp.

Behind Strahan, torches held by a dozen huntsmen lit the castle walls. Smoke curled into the damp air, and red and yellow flames cast moving shadows on the ground. Strahan, thrown in relief by the fires, looked like the devil himself.

“So, Morgana, you’ve returned.” He glanced at her circle of light and her monk’s robe. “No doubt to bargain with your life for those you love,” he guessed, his voice filled with scorn. “Dressed as a servant to God. I trust this was for my amusement.”

Morgana thrust her hands in her pockets of the monk’s robe. In one she touched the prayerbook; in the other she felt the hilt of Enit’s knife. “I am here to beg you to spare Garrick’s life.”

“You bring his son with you?”

Morgana shook her head. “Nay. Never would I entrust a child to you.”

“No? Not even your own children? Our children?”

She felt a rush of vomit climb up her throat at the thought of bearing Strahan’s child.

“What if I told you that Garrick is already dead?” Strahan asked, adding to her torment.

Her heart cracked. Fear flooded through her veins. “I would not believe you.”

“Would you believe his sister?” Strahan asked.

Oh, God, please no! “If Clare says he’s dead, then, yea, I will believe,” she said, panic welling up within her. Was it possible? Could Garrick really have ceased to exist? Would she not have sensed his death? If he was gone, wouldn’t a part of her, too, have left this world? Her heart shattered, and her knees weakened. All seemed to have been for naught … but as she stared at Strahan she saw the glint of pleasure in his eyes. He was but playing with her. Again she felt Enit’s blade against her leg, and the knife was a comfort.

“What makes you think I want you still, after you’ve given yourself to another??

? he asked.

She held her chin high with pride. “Mayhap you don’t.”

“Mayhap I want you only as my whore,” he said. “Are you willing to give yourself to me without marriage, as you have given yourself to Garrick?”

No! “I will do what you wish if Garrick, his family, and mine are set free,” she said evenly, though rebellion boiled in her blood. “However, if they are not, then know you this: I would rather die than lie with a cur like you.”

He laughed aloud, the sound terrifying. “You’re not in a bargaining position, I fear.”

“Am I not?” Morgana asked, daring to match wits with him. She lifted her arms to the sky and turned her face to the wind. “Come all that is wild, all that is free. Follow these flames.” The sky seemed to boil as the clouds moved. Rain splashed against her eyes and her cheeks. As the lightning charged the sky, she turned in a slow circle and chanted: “Master of the gentle rain, mistress of the storm, guard against the sinner’s bane. Keep us all from harm. Shield the son of Abergwynn from the traitor’s blade, and let the traitor know we shall not be afraid—”

“No spells, witch!” Strahan commanded sharply. “Come forward slowly. If you truly wish to save Garrick’s miserable hide, you must prove yourself.”