Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Besides, the young maids were all too eager, which kept the randy soldiers who visited in fine spirits. The crop of bastards who were born each year were always treated well at Tower Wenlock. When they were old enough, they were given jobs within the castle walls so that they could earn their keep.

Aye, Tarren or Nellwyn or any of the other women servants would likely lie with a baron of Garrick Maginnis’s wealth and power. ’Twould be an honor to share the bed of one who was master of Daffyd of Wenlock.

It bothered Morgana a little to think of some woman lifting her skirts to him, but she closed her mind to those wayward thoughts. What cared she? He could lie with a hundred wenches and ’twould not matter. She saw his shadow pass on the stable walls. He turned suddenly to face her, his head tilted upward, his gaze locking with hers for an instant. Her heart kicked a bit, but she didn’t flinch, intent on proving she was not afraid of him or his power. Upon studying his features she half-heartedly agreed with Glyn: the man was handsome in a rugged manner. Even in the purple twilight, she saw the determination in his gaze, knew that he was here only because of his son.

Aye, if he lay with a wench this night, it would be to forget the great melancholy that overcame him when he thought of his boy. She felt as if he had told her this, though she could hardly know his thoughts. But for one instant she felt as if she’d peered into the darkness of his soul.

Unnerved when he didn’t swing his gaze away, Morgana, head aloft, moved from the window and ignored the fact that her heart drummed within her chest and her hands trembled slightly at the thought that soon she would be riding with Baron Maginnis on a long journey to Abergwynn.

Garrick had no appetite, nor did he have any interest in the maids who cast him fond looks or in the music that swelled to the trusses of the great hall. Nay, he wanted only to leave Wenlock with Morgana and start the hunt for his son, though she had given him no reason to believe that she could help him.

Yea, he’d seen her mumbling words to a stormy sky, scratching a circle in the sand, and stalking around burning candles in the darkness by the sea. God’s truth, he’d been captivated by her and her silly antics, watching as the wind tore at her hair and pressed her tunic to her supple figure. With the roar of the sea as an accompaniment, her chants had been somewhat bewitching.

Worse yet, the ride to the camp and later to Wenlock, when he’d had to physically restrain her, had been difficult. Her small body though tense, had molded itself to his and the roundness of her buttocks had pressed firmly against his crotch, causing an unlikely swelling of his manhood.

He’d hidden his reaction to her, and Morgana, frightened as she was, had not noticed. God’s teeth, what was wrong with him? He finished his wine with one swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A page, no more than eight, drew close and offered more spirits. Garrick grunted and motioned toward his cup. Obviously nervous, the lad was careful to spill nary a drop, though he did not look up when a murmur swept the room and all eyes turned toward the staircase where Morgana of Wenlock slowly descended.

Her appearance gave pause even to Garrick, for this was not the slender girl with the wild hair and swift blade he’d found last night; nay, this female descending the steps was a woman, full grown and beautiful. Her skin was clear, her green eyes fringed by graceful lashes, her small chin thrust forward in defiance. Her black hair curled around her face, restrained only by a braid. Her gown flowed around her, but hugged her bosom, showing off the sculpted shape of her breasts.

Again Garrick felt a stirring in his loins, and he crossed his legs. Fool! He heard a few of his men comment under their breath at her beauty, and more than one lustful glance was cast in her direction.

She would be more trouble than she was worth. Garrick realized, though even he was dumbstruck at her loveliness. A journey with an army of randy soldiers was never easy, but with so comely a woman along, the going would be much worse. Men would quarrel, perhaps come to blows, and the maiden herself, too spirited for her own good, would not be easy to handle.

Head aloft, she walked down the stairs while every eye in the great hall was trained on her.

Daffyd, seated next to Garrick, frowned at his daughter’s approach. “Were she not so headstrong she would make some man a fine wife. She is beautiful, aye, and as smart as any woman should be. Quick with a dagger and bow, she is an excellent huntress and warrior.”

“What needs she of a husband?” Garrick asked, and Daffyd snorted, watching as his firstborn left the great hall and walked toward the chapel where she was to meet with the chaplain and atone for yet another blasphemy against God. Would she were as pious as Glyn, Daffyd thought, as his second daughter strolled slowly down the staircase and entered the great hall. Though Glyn in her own way was headstrong, she, like most women, could be bent. But Morgana — God’s blood, the girl was a trial.

Glyn curtsied to Lord Maginnis and took a seat on the bench next to him. She blushed prettily as the baron spoke to her, and Daffyd wondered if Maginnis would ask for her hand. He was in need of a wife to run his castle and bear him an heir. True, there was Maginnis’s son, Logan, who, if still alive, would be the rightful heir to Castle Abergwynn and all its fiefdoms, but the boy had been missing for a fortnight, and even with Morgana’s help, the chance of finding Logan alive was naught in Daffyd’s mind. So why should the baron not marry a fair maid like Glyn? Though not as striking as Morgana, Glyn was certainly beautiful, and at least she knew how to behave! Yea, she would make the baron a dutiful wife.

For the first time since discovering that Morgana had defied him by stealing away from the castle walls, Daffyd of Wenlock smiled.

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.” Morgana knelt at the altar in the chapel, whispering prayers of atonement. The chaplain, a well-fed man with a ring of thick red hair surrounding a bald pate, was a stern believer in God. He clucked his tongue at her confession.

“The Lord God will serve out his own punishment for you, Morgana,” he said, then rattled off her penance, leaving Morgana alone in the chapel, the tiny flames of candles flickering against the stone walls, to make her peace with God. Her head bowed, she closed her eyes, asking God to intercede so that she might not have to ride with the baron.

“Any task you give me will be not too great,” she murmured, “but please deliver me from the devil from the north.”

A quiet cough caused a cold finger of fear to s

teal up her spine. She licked her lips and caught a glimpse of black hair and a hawkish nose.

“Devil?” he asked, when her prayer-cadence was silent. Maginnis slouched, with one shoulder propped against the door frame.

“Speak ye not of the dark prince in the house of the Lord.”

“’Twas you who spoke of Satan.”

“I’ll not hear this blasphemy!” she hissed.

“Ah, so now you speak like your sister, telling those around you of God’s will.”

Morgana rose to her full height, yet still she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Candlelight was reflected in his gray eyes, but Morgana stood firm. “I know not how you act in the chapel at Abergwynn, but here we respect all that is God’s.”

“By burning candles and chanting to spirits while wading in the sea?” he mocked, the amusement dying in his eyes.

Morgana brushed past him, but he snagged her elbow, spinning her around. Her breath caught in her throat as she slammed against him. He pressed his face close to hers to study her as if she were some odd creature he’d never seen before. The smell of wine was on his breath, and his features were harsh. Panic swept through Morgana. “You’re a puzzlement,” he said lazily, “and, I suspect, quite treacherous. Were it not for Logan, I would have naught to do with you.”