Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Wolf growled. He paced along the shoreline, his paws wet, his gold eyes like liquid fire as he stared at her. The thick gray and black hair on the back of his neck was raised, as if he, too, had seen the vision.

Morgana ran through the shallow water, splashing sand and foam upon the hem of her white tunic, and Wolf followed. She paused only to draw a three-fingered rune in the wet sand with a stick. As the sea lapped over her symbol of protection, she tossed the stick aside, knelt, and quickly whispered a prayer for safety.

Her horse, a dappled mare, snorted and pranced, neighing in terror.

“Shhh, Phantom. ’Tis but the wind … all is well,” Morgana lied, running to the skittish animal. She patted the horse’s sleek neck and fumbled with the sodden leather reins.

Finally the cursed knots unraveled. Morgana climbed onto a log and hopped lithely astride the mare’s wet back. “Ha!” she cried, bare heels digging into Phantom’s smooth sides.

Her game little mare whirled on her back legs, then broke into a gallop, hurtling along the water’s edge toward the path leading to Tower Wenlock. Wolf raced close behind, as he had from the day Morgana had found him abandoned in the forest near the castle.

Skirts bunched up, Morgana wound her fingers in the mare’s coarse mane as the little horse’s hooves pounded the wet sand and wind, streaming past, stung her eyes.

There will be death. It comes to the House of Wenlock from the north.

Morgana shivered, but not from the cold. Never before had she heard such an ominous message, but never before had Castle Wenlock been so weak. “It will not happen,” she vowed, thinking of her family. “There will be no death in the tower.” The danger from the north would be defeated.

Gray ears flattened against her head, hooves striking stones, the mare turned onto the path that wound up the cliff face.

Morgana leaned forward. “Do not fear, Phantom,” she urged the little horse. “We will warn them. And this time you and I and Wolf, we will thwart the fates!”

Chapter One

Castle Abergwynn, North Wales

May 1286

“As God is my witness, I’ll not stop until I find my boy!” Garrick, son of Maginnis and baron of all of Abergwynn, slid from his mud-splattered mount, his boots sinking into the wet earth of the inner bailey. His clothes were grimy, his hair unruly, his beard in need of cutting — evidence of days riding and searching and finding nothing. Nothing! Not one bloody trace of the boy or the nurse.

A scowl as dark as the thunderclouds gathering over the north tower creased his face, his harsh features ruthless and set. Tossing wet hair from his eyes, he swore a silent oath at the fates, or God, he didn’t care which.

His knights, brave souls who had ridden with him on his luckless quest, dismounted, avoiding him, leading their horses to the stable. Loyal men, they knew when to leave their lord to his dreadful moods. This was the foulest, blackest humor ever to have darkened his soul.

Only George,

an ungainly boy of barely fourteen summers, whose skin was pockmarked and reddened, dared speak, and this was only because, as Garrick’s vassal, he had no choice. “I will see to your steed, my lord,” he squeaked out, snatching the rain-swollen reins from Garrick’s gloved hand.

Barely hearing the boy, Garrick strode forward, shoulders hunched against the wind, but head unbowed. He would not be broken. He would not fail. As long as there was some trace of breath in his body, he would search for his son. For the first time in his life he didn’t care about his destrier, his castle, or his lands. All that mattered was Logan.

With a rattle of heavy chains, the portcullis clanged down, sealing off the castle, as if anything worth protecting remained inside. Garrick snorted at his own vanity. How prideful he’d been. How he’d found pleasure in the thick stone walls, the massive towers, the curtain wall wide and long enough to stand his entire army. God’s teeth, what a fool he’d been, thinking this castle, this miserable fortress, was so valuable!

Glaring up at the slate-dark heavens, he muttered a curse to a God who had not only taken his wife away from him three years past but had now stolen his boy as well.

As if in answer, lightning streaked the sky, a jagged sizzle that flashed white against the square northern tower. Thunder clapped mockingly over the land, as if God himself were laughing.

Garrick threw back his head, and rain drizzled down his neck and face, leaving cold droplets to run beneath his shirt. “I’ll find him. By all that is holy and that which is not, I’ll find my boy or die trying!”

Again thunder cracked.

Angrily Garrick stalked through the mud to the great hall at the far corner of the inner bailey. Castle Abergwynn was perched high on a cliff. On three sides the fortress stood atop sheer cliffs that fell a hundred feet to treacherous rocks and raging surf. Yet even the thick stone barricades hadn’t been protection enough to save his son from harm.

Walking briskly through the forebuilding he didn’t bother pausing at the chapel. Let Friar Francis stew in his own sanctimonious juices. Though Garrick heard the chaplain murmuring prayers, he wasn’t in the mood to face a man of God, and he’d prayed enough as it was. What good had it done? Had God seen fit to lead him to his son? No! His boots rang sharply against the stone steps as he climbed toward the great hall, his pride, his home, was now not much more than an empty, dark chamber with no laughter, no warmth, no quick little footsteps.

He strode to the hearth and warmed his hands, though the coldness would never leave his heart. Servants, accustomed to his black moods, made themselves scarce, finding work elsewhere. Smoke from the hearth curled lazily upward and out through the few recessed windows, leaving a layer of soot on the stone walls.

The dogs that had been with Garrick, as if sensing their master’s mood, slunk into the shadows, growling over a bone or scrap of meat that had fallen into the rushes. Garrick shouted at the hounds until they lay quietly in the corner, their ever-vigilant eyes turned toward him.

It had been ten days since he’d last seen Logan, his son, and although Garrick was lord of the manor, baron of Abergwynn, he was frightened that he would never lay eyes upon his boy again. Curse the souls of those who would steal his child! Blood would surely be spilled if any harm came to Logan.