Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“But you have found lost ones, warned the townspeople of storms, and even discovered a traitor.”

She didn’t respond. Sweat inched its way down her back and oiled her palms, making digging more difficult under Strahan’s watchful eyes.

“Did you warn of an attack on the village?”

Again she kept her eyes lowered.

“A talent for seeing what will come is of great value, Morgana,” he said very deliberately. “Is that why you are not yet betrothed, because your father feels your value is too high?”

She lifted her head then and felt the anger burning in her gaze. “I have not yet married as I have not yet found a man who suits me,” she told him, placing the herbs in a cloth bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

A hard smile crossed Strahan’s lips. “Your father gives you say in who will be your husband?”

“My father wants me to be happily wed.” That was perhaps a mild lie, but it seemed necessary to bend the truth a little. Sir Strahan was a clever man, but something about him drew the muscles of her back into a knot.

“What kind of man would you have?” he asked, keeping his voice low so that Tarren, who was telling the other servants how to lay out the sheets to dry, would not overhear his words.

Morgana arched a fine dark brow and said, “A man who does not talk too much, a man who would not treat me like a servant, and a man who would not bother me with silly gossips.”

His lips thinned into a smile that caused fear to settle in her throat. “I think m’lady that what you need is a husband who would tame your wild spirit.”

The knot in the small of her back tightened still further.

“A man who would use your powers for the benefit of his castle and king, a man who would enjoy your beauty and teach you how to use your sharp tongue to his advantage.” He leaned forward to touch her then, one long finger tracing the slope of her cheek to linger at the corner of her mouth. His gaze, narrowing, moved even farther down to rest at the swell of her breasts. Though she was fully dressed, Morgana felt as naked as a newborn babe. “A man who would show you the art of loving … the secrets of passion.”

“I need no man, Sir Strahan,” she assured him, standing quickly, turning on her heel, and marching stiffly back to the kitchen while the sound of his mocking laughter followed her into the castle.

That very night, unable to sleep, she crept toward the kitchen, but as she rounded a corner, Morgana spied Sir Strahan in the hallway with Springan, a red-haired maid of sixteen who served Meredydd. The girl was pushed hard against the wall, her skirts aloft, and Strahan was pressing his body rigidly against hers. At first Morgana thought he was forcing himself upon her, and she wanted to call the guard, but the maid closed her eyes, her head lolled back, and her arms encircled Strahan’s neck. “Please, oh, please,” she murmured as they slid as one down the wall to the stone floor. Springan’s red curls fanned out around her head, and Strahan buried his face in her neck, one hand reaching beneath her skirt.

Morgana’s stomach roiled, and she started to step away, but not before Strahan, lowering himself over the maid, caught a glimpse of her. He smiled, and, as if he enjoyed knowing that Morgana was watching them, he bent to kiss Springan with renewed passion, and the maidservant moaned — in pain or in ecstasy, Morgana knew not which.

Her heart beating as fast as doves’ wings, Morgana stumbled along the hallway, racing to her bedchamber and wishing she had not spied the act of lovemaking. She knew how babies were conceived as well as how they were delivered — anyone living with the animals in the castle knew how they bred — but she’d never before witnessed the act of lovemaking between a man and a woman, and she had been disgusted by the display.

The next morning Sir Strahan sat at the table with Morgana, sharing a trencher of bread with her, and his eyes gleamed with devilment, though he spoke not a word about his display with Springan. Even when the maid appeared to clear the table and offered to polish his sword, Strahan did not look much at her or give her a smile. Indeed, it was as if she were no different from any other servant, though Springan’s eyes betrayed her. As she went about her chores, her gaze followed Sir Strahan, and the looks she cast Morgana were murderous.

Fool, Morgana had thought as Strahan and his men left the following morning.

When Springan’s bastard had arrived nine months later, the girl had refused to name the father, but Morgana knew the dark-eyed baby had been sired by Strahan of Hazelwood.

Now Morgana was to marry the cur. The thought was revolting, and she swore to herself that she’d find a way out of this betrothal. Her father had refused to listen to her arguments, and her mother, usually her ally, had stiffly informed her that it was well past time she was wed, that a cousin of the baron’s was certainly a good man, and that Garrick of Abergwynn himself had promised that Morgana would become the lady of a fine castle in the north, which he planned to give to Strahan upon their marriage. So it mattered not what Morgana wanted.

As for Springan’s two-year old, Morgana had held her tongue about the babe’s father. Springan was a good and loyal servant, and though she’d made a mistake with Strahan, she was not the first young maid to have her head turned by a handsome knight and thereafter bear his child.

But the thought of marrying Strahan was, in Morgana’s mind, a curse, as if God himself had decided she must be punished for her lack of devotion. “Leave me now,” she commanded Nellwyn, but the maid took no notice.

“’Twas Sir Daffyd ‘imself who told me to pack you things for your journey. I cannot disobey ‘im. I’ll only be a little while.” She folded some more of Morgana’s belongings and then, balancing the large bundles, left Morgana to her thoughts.

Morgana knelt beside the bed and hung her head. “Deliver me, Lord. Help me find a way to escape this fate. Do not tie me to a cruel man, and please protect all that is Tower Wenlock.” Her heart pounded with dread as she remembered Garrick’s words in the chapel. If she failed in her task, he would seek revenge against her home and family. Why, oh, why, had she taunted him? He was a harsh man, a powerful man, a man one did not defy.

“I will miss you, child,” Enit whispered as Morgana entered her grandmother’s chamber. Enit looked frailer than ever, her skin thin as parchment as she lay under a fur comforter.

“Aye, and I will miss you.” Morgana, her heart heavy, sat on the edge of the bed, taking the older woman’s hands in hers. Though bony and thin, Enit’s hands were still strong.

“Something is bothering you.”

“Aye.”

“What is it, Morgana?”