Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Morgana snorted. “Glyn is a fool! She can have him,” Morgana replied, but thought she saw the ghost of a smile on her mother’s full lips. What, she wondered, did Meredydd find remotely humorous about this wretched situation?

“So you want a husband for your daughter?” Garrick asked, his eyes narrowing on the man who had sired the witch. Garrick had dealt often with fathers anxious to marry off their daughters who, for one reason or another, were not able to find suitors. Usually the girl was homely or without dowry or disfigured. Not so Morgana of Wenlock. She was a good-looking one, the sorceress. Thick black hair, eyes the color of a dark forest, and lips full and supple, though they always seemed to be drawn into a stubborn pout. Were it not for her sorcery and her sharp tongue, Morgana would have been a woman more desirable than any he’d met in a long, long while.

Daffyd was in a hurry to marry off his eldest, as she, at seventeen, was old for a maiden. No doubt more than one knight had shied away from her because of the cutting edge of her dagger and her razorlike words. Yea, and what man who was not daft himself would want a wife who talked to the spirits? Strahan wanted her, but Strahan, loyal though he was, had always been something of a puzzlement.

Daffyd stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Aye, Morgana needs a husband. Make no mistake, the man must be stronger than most.”

“Must he be rich?” Garrick asked, accepting a cup of wine from a fresh-scrubbed maid who averted her eyes and slipped quickly behind a curtain. “Are you seeking a dowry for Morgana?”

Daffyd, a shrewd man, was not a liar. “Yea. She is beautiful and, though stubborn, could become a willing wife who would bear strong sons.”

“She’s rumored to be a witch. In truth,

that’s why I’m here.”

“Her powers are not of the black arts,” Daffyd said quickly, but Garrick noticed the sweat collecting on the upper lip of his host. The sorceress was more trouble than Daffyd would dare admit. Mayhap this castle was in need of gold. Garrick eyed the interior walls, whitewashed and clean, and noticed the painted wool wall hangings as well as the fresh, fragrant rushes on the floor. The linen had been clean, the gardens near the kitchen without weeds. Daffyd of Wenlock was lord of a well-run castle, showing no need of gold, though, from what Garrick had noticed, his army was small.

Daffyd mopped his brow. “God’s truth, m’lord, Morgana is as headstrong as Friar Tobias’s donkey.” He took a swallow of wine. “Though she’s much swifter than the friar’s mount, she’s wayward and needs a strong man who will bend her will to his.”

“Is that possible?” Garrick asked, leaning back in his chair and drinking from the silver-rimmed cup he’d been offered. He and Daffyd were alone in the great hall, though Garrick heard the soft sound of servants’ footsteps beyond the curtained inner door. Voices drifted through the maze of hallways from the kitchen and tower rooms. He thought of Morgana locked away in her chamber. She would no doubt be furious, her tongue as sharp as the knife he’d taken from her.

Daffyd rested the heel of a boot on a bench used during meals. “Morgana is my firstborn, and I love her — aye, too much mayhap. Though she was not a son, even as a small child, she enjoyed doing man things. Meredydd and I should have bent her will at a younger age, but” —he motioned quickly with his hands, dismissing the past— “Morgana was never interested in embroidery or any duties fit for the lady of the house. Not that she couldn’t perform them, mind you, had she the need. Nay, it was that her interests were with the archers and the smith and the candlemaker—”

“With witchcraft.”

Daffyd scowled. “She is not a witch, Lord Garrick. I say to you on the souls of all my children, she is no witch.”

“But I’m in need of a witch right now. Or a woman with the powers to find my son. Think you she is able?”

Daffyd was a cunning man. He wasn’t about to destroy the good fortune that God had dropped into his lap. For having the baron here, with need of Morgana’s powers, was good fortune indeed. Yea, God had smiled on Tower Wenlock this day. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin. “She has found others,” he admitted slowly.

Garrick leaned forward, his wine forgotten. “Has she ever failed?”

Unable to lie, Daffyd nodded. “Only once. Her vision was unclear, and she was unable to find the miller’s youngest son, a lad of twelve who, when the miller awoke one morn, was not to be found. Morgana found not a trace of the boy. She insisted she failed because the lad wished not to be discovered. Her father whipped him, as the son was lazy, she said, and the boy had run off.”

“Say you that she can find only those who want to be discovered?”

Daffyd shrugged. “I know that she has failed but once. If you want to be reunited with your boy, my lord, then Morgana can be of help to you.”

“And you are willing to let her go?”

“To you? Of course,” Daffyd asked, bowing his head slightly. “All that I have is yours, m’lord.”

Garrick guessed that the man was being overly humble, but he didn’t care. The Welsh barons were known for their cunning and their treachery. Though Daffyd of Wenlock had never risen against the king and had proved himself a faithful vassal, he might still have ties to the rebellion. True, the uprising had been thwarted, but the cry for independence still echoed through the forests and hills of Wales. The need for freedom from English rule was in the heart of more than one Welsh vassal. Garrick would not be so blind as to trust Daffyd completely. “What about the dower? What price would you have?”

“The gold is insignificant, though it is costly to run a castle and I would lose a fine leader if Morgana leaves.” As if reading the skepticism in Garrick’s eyes, Daffyd hastened on, “Though she is but a woman, the servants, and aye, even some of the men, trust her wisdom and follow her.” He sighed. “Some would probably follow her into battle. They are as loyal as that wolf that pads behind her.”

“So gold is what you’re after.”

“Gold would help,” Daffyd admitted as he turned his cup between his palms. “But I ask only that Morgana be taught to be a lady, that she be married to a worthy man, and that my other two children, Glyn and Cadell, receive some of the same training — Cadell as a squire and knight, Glyn as a lady.”

“At Castle Abergwynn?”

“As you wish.”

Garrick turned the request over in his mind. The boy, Cadell, was welcome. Only a few years younger than Ware, Garrick’s own brother, Cadell could learn well at Castle Abergwynn. Glyn could also fit easily into the daily routine of the keep. Surely Lady Clare could mold the younger daughter into a fine lady; Glyn had already shown herself a willing pupil. She’s been overly friendly and soft-spoken at the table, her manners already in evidence. Yea, she would soon make some knight a devout and well-mannered wife. But Morgana was another matter. Sharp of tongue, quick of wit, and fleet of foot, she was dangerous and spirited, a woman who would not bend easily to any man’s way.

Perhaps Strahan had been too hasty in asking for her hand.