Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Several others of his men were in need of wives, and more than one would gladly take a woman as beautiful as Morgana. But Sir Randolph had a cruel streak that, though useful in battle, would not bode well for his woman, and Sir Fulton was portly and a clown, a knight who enjoyed ale and bawdy stories and big-bosomed wenches.

Nay, neither would do for Morgana. Strahan had already spoken for her. Garrick had given his word. Strahan was strong enough to handle Morgana, and yea, he had seen a glint of desire in Strahan’s eyes when he spoke of her. “If Morgana will help me find my son,” Garrick said slowly, his fingers running over the silver rim of the cup he was holding, “then I promise you this: she will marry a knight of my choosing, a good man who will be given his own land and castle. He is my own cousin, Strahan Hazelwood, a loyal follower of our king. He has already inquired of her.”

Daffyd grunted. He’d met Strahan. His old eyes gleamed, and he chanced pushing his good fortune a bit. “What of Glyn?”

“She may come to Castle Abergwynn to be taught by Lady Clare, but I can promise no more. Not until Logan is returned safely.”

“What if he is not?” Daffyd asked.

Garrick’s mouth turned hard. His hands quit moving along the edge of his cup. “Pray that doesn’t happen,” he said, his face suddenly dark and forbidding. “I did not come here on a fool’s mission. Your daughter must not fail.”

“She will not,” Daffyd assured his guest, though he rubbed his palms on his breeches as if to remove an anxious sweat.

Garrick tossed back his wine and left the empty cup on the table. “There is more you wish?” he asked, beginning to dislike Daffyd of Wenlock.

“Aye, m’lord. As you many have noticed, my soldiers are few, lost to disease last year and in defending our king during the uprising of neighboring lords, especially Osric McBrayne. We are in need of good men to secure this keep and to protect the village. If you could but leave a few of your soldiers—”

“Twenty of my best men shall remain here. But I have learned there may be war with the Scots. If I’m called upon to ride with Edward, I will need my knights.”

“And have them you shall, as well as soldiers from Wenlock. Thank you, m’lord,” Daffyd said with obvious relief. He vowed his fealty once again, then, standing, offered Garrick a smile. “Now, come, rest a while. Soon we will feast and celebrate our renewed alliance.”

Garrick didn’t move. His eyes, hard as steel, held the other man’s, and his lips barely moved as he spoke. “Know you this, Daffyd of Wenlock. I have traveled long to come here in search of a witch. I will do everything you ask, but now your daughter must not fail me.”

Chapter Six

“A

h, m’lady, ‘ow lovely ye look!” Nellwyn, a gap-toothed girl with freckles and hair the color of flame, nodded approvingly at Morgana. She clasped her hands before her chest and sighed.

“I do not feel lovely,” Morgana grumbled, refusing to eye herself in the mirror that Meredydd insisted on holding near her face. Her sandal tunic, a lavender color that reminded Morgana of twilight, was trimmed with rabbit fur. Her white mantle was embroidered in hues of pink and rose, and a silver belt was slung around her waist.

For once her dark curls were restrained and trained beneath a wimple.

“No one will recognize you,” her mother predicted.

Mayhap that wasn’t so bad. Her father might have forgotten his bad mood, and should he see his elder daughter behaving in a ladylike fashion, perhaps he would forget the angry words he’d spoken in such haste. If Morgana could but get Daffyd alone, apologize for her foolishness of the night before, and swear to be obedient in the future, there was a chance her father would forgive her and take away the wretched punishment he’d so quickly meted out.

Glyn slipped through the door and, upon spying Morgana, stopped still and audibly gasped. Morgana felt a surge of vindication when she thought of her reaction to Glyn’s announcement that she was to marry Baron Maginnis.

“Morgana?” Glyn said, her throat bobbing a little as she closed her mouth and stared in disbelief at her older sister.

“Aye?” For effect, Morgana lifted her chin just a little more proudly, mimicking a haughty pose she’d often seen when Glyn was in the presence of handsome men. Then quick as a cat springing, she ripped off the wimple. “I’ll not wear that binding—”

“Ah, Morgana,” her mother sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “As you wish.”

“I — I—” Glyn was still staring at Morgana. She cleared her throat, and Meredydd could not keep the corners of her mouth from twitching. “I must get dressed. Already it’s late, and I must not keep the baron waiting.”

“Of course not,” Morgana agreed as her sister fussed about in the cupboard until she finally decided on her blue silk tunic and ermine-edged mantle.

“Come, Nellwyn, help me with my hair,” Glyn ordered snappishly, and the maidservant was soon brushing Glyn’s hair into a soft golden braid.

Morgana was tired of being held virtual prisoner in her own bedchamber, though she wasn’t in the mood for festivities. Not so Glyn, who, spying her reflection, begun humming and, when Meredydd wasn’t looking, added rouge to her cheeks. “’Twill be a grand celebration,” Glyn predicted. “Father sent word to several neighboring lords, and though they are lesser, they will share in the merriment.”

“Is the baron in the mood for festivities?” Morgana asked, thinking of the fierce one and the sorry fact that he still held her dagger in possession.

“He will be,” Glyn said merrily. “There will be musicians and minstrels, and I shall dance with him,” She continued talking rapidly, planning the evening ahead, and Morgana, thinking of her future, became more morose. She sat near the window as the sun set and saw the figure of a lone man walking the inner bailey walls. Garrick of Abergwynn, his visage as dark as the approaching night, stalked the courtyard; his mood did not invite company. Morgana could not imagine him dancing with Glyn or laughing at the antics of jesters or singing or partaking of bawdy stories.

Would he, like so many lords before him, with too much wine in his belly, lie with a kitchen wench? Perhaps Tarren. She was pretty enough, with her sable hair and full lips, and she had been known to lift her skirts to visiting knights. Though Morgana’s mother did not approve of the wenches’ behavior when soldiers were about, there was naught she could do.