Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

The sentry, casting a worried glance, grabbed hold of her arm and led her to the largest tent in the camp. Though she fought him, he was stronger and his long, gloved fingers dug into the flesh of her arms as she struggled.

“Let me go, you beast!” she declared.

He didn’t respond, and as they reached the tent he grabbed for the flap. Morgana, furious, muttered, “If you value your ability to lie with a woman, you will not touch me, for it is in my power to take away from you that which pleasures you most.”

“You speak nonsense, mis

tress,” he replied, but ran a nervous tongue around his lips. Instinctively he touched the apex of his legs, as if to make certain that his male parts were not shriveled.

She arched a black brow. “Be forewarned and do not be foolish enough to make me prove myself.”

“Aye, you are from the devil,” he muttered, swallowing hard. After ordering several soldiers to guard the tent, he opened the flap and Morgana walked stiffly inside.

She almost grinned at his gullibility. So Garrick Maginnis’s proud knights were only fearful men in mail. Perhaps her escape would prove easier than she had imagined. As for the baron — oh, she would love to see his face when he found out that she had duped his soldiers. It took all her effort not to laugh and thereby foil her plan.

If her escape was to work, she would have to be patient and wait until the camp was quiet again — then she could safely slip past the guards and into the forest she had known all her life. Once she was in the privacy of the woods, she could steal quietly back to the beach and run to the castle, where she would shimmy up the rope and wake her father.

She thought guiltily of the rope swinging from the great walls of Wenlock. Unwittingly she had offered enemies easy access to the inside of the castle. Her father, mother, brother — aye, and even Glyn — could be murdered as they slept, because of her foolishness.

“God protect them,” she prayed silently, filled with remorse. Oh, if only she could return to the castle safely, she would never again disobey her father! Never! Vowing to change her ways, she lay on a thick pallet in the center of the tent. She closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep, but in truth she waited, her mind counting off the slow seconds, her breathing slow and even to fool the guards, her body as taut as a bowstring, as the noise in the camp slowly died again.

She didn’t doubt that Garrick had positioned himself at the entrance of the tent. She could see the shadow, cast in scarlet by the dying ember of the fire, propped up near the flap. There were men stationed all around, though she couldn’t detect a silhouette on the darkened side near the forest.

“Mother Mary, be with me,” she said as she prepared to make good her plan. Her throat dry, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she quickly drew a symbol in the dirt that meant nothing, just to give the lustful sentry something more to dwell fearfully upon. Then, sucking in her breath, she inched noiselessly to the back of the tent, carefully lifted the cloth and rolled to freedom. The sentry standing guard leaned against a tree, his head nodding forward.

Though fear curdled in her stomach, Morgana smiled to herself. Garrick of Castle Abergwynn had a pitiful army if these sentries were any sample of his strength.

Nearby a horse nickered softly and stamped its hoof. Morgana caught her breath and didn’t move. The sentry snorted, but his head nodded back. Fool, Morgana thought. She considered stealing the steed, then tossed the idea aside. It wouldn’t do to take from a lord, especially a lord she planned to humiliate by slipping from his grasp. It didn’t matter that she only meant to borrow a mount for the night — Baron Maginnis would likely strangle her with his own two hands.

She was better off on foot.

Morgana tucked her feet beneath her and, crouching low in the shadows, scurried silently to the forest’s edge. The air was thick with dampness. Fog still clung to the ground, wisping around thickets of oak, alder, and maple. The smell of dank earth and ferns greeted her as she considered Garrick, the mighty warrior, waking up to find that a mere unarmed girl — nay, a witch, as he called her — could elude him and his trained sentries. It warmed her heart a little, though she was tempted to return and retrieve the dagger that the black-hearted devil had stolen from her.

Leaves and branches crunched softly beneath her feet as she hurried toward the sounds of the sea. She found the path on which she and Garrick had so recently ridden and, after creeping out of the shadows, broke into a run.

The water was only a short distance away, she could hear the dull roar of waves crashing against the sand. Only one more corner and … She stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The swirling sea mist parted, revealing the sharp silhouette of a man.

Morgana swallowed back her fear as she realized she had nearly collided with none other than Garrick of Abergwynn. Looming in the night, moonlight illuminating his formidable face, he blocked the path. His eyes flashed silver; his lips were drawn back against his teeth. “Well, witch,” he said with quiet menace, “would you leave me so soon? Before you have helped me find my son?”

Morgana wanted to step back but held her ground. “I said I could not help you.”

He moved closer as the moon passed behind a cloud. Her skin prickled in apprehension. She considered dashing around him, but knew her attempt to escape would be futile. “’Tis said you have helped others find their lost kin,” he said slowly.

“Aye.”

“So you would deny me the same kindness?”

He was so close she could feel the heat from his body, smell the earthy maleness of him. “Nay, I would not,” she admitted, “but I know not that I can help you. You do not believe in my gifts.”

Even in the darkness she could see his features grow strained. “I have little faith in sorcery and not much more in God.” He rubbed an impatient hand around the back of his neck, and his breath whistled slowly from his lungs. “But I must do whatever I can to find my son. If that means I must use whatever powers you possess, so be it.”

“And yet you are not afraid of me?”

He barked a short laugh. “Afraid of one so small? Nay, witch.”

“I am called Morgana.”

“Morgana,” he repeated, her name rolling easily off his tongue. “I fear only losing my son.”