Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Fire!” the guards yelled, and footsteps pounding in the outer hallways. Women shrieked, and growling dogs added to the terror of the crackling flames.

“As I predicted, Strahan,” Morgana said, narrowing her eyes. “Here you will die.” Swiftly she reached into her boot and withdrew the small knife with its carved handle from where she’d hidden it. Ignoring Enit’s warning, she swung at Strahan. He grabbed her wrist, pounding it hard against the altar. The knife fell to the floor.

“Stop, bastard!” Clare held her sword aloft, aimed at Strahan’s head, but he ducked as she swung it down, and Glyn screamed yet again.

“Fire! Fire!” the soldiers shouted, still dancing around the flames, their hands on their swords.

Garrick was breathing hard, his entire body aching as he lunged for Morgana’s knife. He found the blade, but the hot metal seared his hand. Again the knife fell to the floor. All around him smoke and crackling flames burned the air, filling the chapel with a horrid stench.

“Let there be no bloodshed in the house of the Lord!” Father Matthew insisted, stamping out flames on his way to the door.

People rushed through the chapel in a panic, and Garrick grabbed a candlestick, the only weapon he could find. It, too, was hot, but he held it aloft and turned on his cousin.

“You miserable asp!” Strahan swore as he finally yanked his sword from its sheath. “Go now to Satan!”

“Let there be no bloodshed in the house of the Lord!” the chaplain repeated as he fled toward the door. “Please, save yourselves!” He threw the few remaining drops of holy water onto his vestments and ran from the chapel as the first servants carried in tubs of water.

Strahan swung his sword but Garrick rolled away quickly. His body aching, consciousness threatening to fail, he dodged the sword by mere inches. The blade stuck hard in the wooden altar. With an effort, Strahan pulled his weapon free.

Smoke clogged the room. Morgana wrapped the hem of her skirt around her hands and searched the burning rushes, withdrew the white-hot blade, and held it aloft. “Stop, Strahan,” she ordered, “or I will kill you myself.”

“Morgana, no!” Garrick cried, for Strahan had whirled upon his new wife, wielding his sword. Garrick grabbed Strahan’s legs, bringing him to the floor, and they grabbed for the sword. Pain exploded through Garrick’s chest, but he hung on and swung a fist toward Strahan’s face.

His hand connected and sent a shock up his entire arm.

Strahan scrambled away, but Morgana still held her grandmother’s knife.

“Think you could kill me with that?” Strahan asked, eyeing the small weapon.

Glyn fainted, and Clare swung her sword at a guard before bending down and slapping the girl into consciousness.

“She won’t have to kill you,” another voice yelled over the frenzy. Garrick twisted to find the servant woman, Springan, standing in the doorway. Her shaved head was red with anger, and her fingers were coiled tight over the handle of a pail. Her face was twisted, and tears streamed from her eyes as she cried, “Strahan of Hazelwood, servant of Satan, I now consign you to hell for that is where you belong!”

“Kill her!” Strahan ordered, struggling to his feet.

A guard swung his sword in Springan’s direction, but before the blade felled her, Springan threw the liquid from the pail at Strahan, and it ignited with a roar, crackling and spitting, smelling of animal fat.

Strahan let out a horrendous scream, and the knight’s sword struck Springan in the shoulder. She fell, but her eyes stayed fast on the fiery mass that was the father of her child.

Morgana stepped back, sickened at the sight, while Strahan’s men tried to douse the flames with tubs of water. But the grease had soaked into his clothes, and he had become a screaming human torch, clawing painfully at the skin on his face and neck, wildly running in circles as the fire swept over him, consuming the cooking grease and charring his skin.

“No! Holy Christ, save me!” he cried, writhing from the torment of the flames. Again the soldiers threw water on him, but still he was hideously blacked, his face destroyed, his hair a blazing halo surrounding his ghastly skull. His screams echoed through the castle as he ran crazily, as if he could escape the flames that were eating him alive.

“Father, help us,” Glyn prayed, trying to swoon yet again.

Springan lay where she had been felled, her life seeping from the mortal wound. Morgana ran to her while Glyn whispered prayers and Clare ordered the girl taken upstairs.

“’Tis too late,” Springan whispered, her voice barely a rattle as her eyes sought Morgana’s. She clutched the sleeve of the dress that was to have been Morgana’s bridal gown and begged, “… Please see that my boy is cared for.”

“It shall be done,” Morgana vowed.

“Forgive me for hating you. ’Twas my jealousy over that bastard Strahan,” Springan said.

“Think naught of it,” Morgana said as Springan’s eyes glazed over and her soul departed. Morgana held her still, unmoving, until Garrick pulled her to her feet and guided her from the chapel where servants and soldiers alike worked to put out the flames.

“’Tis over.” Garrick held her close, kissing the crown of her head. “’Tis the path she chose.”

“But—”