Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Garrick’s own throat clenched, and Morgana was afraid he might shake the child senseless. She knew the power of his hands, how cruel they could be. Instead, the great lord suppressed a smile. “I think you should apologize to the lady.”

“But Mum says—”

“Apologize,” Garrick ordered, and the boy, casting a glance at his frightened mother, suddenly understood his plight. He swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he mumbled, stealing a totally unrepentant glance at Morgana.

“Please, Lord Garrick, he is only a child. Do him no harm,” the mother beseeched. She threw herself to her knees in front of Garrick’s war-horse. The steed stomped and tossed back his head.

“Yea, and he’s a boy who needs to learn some manners,” Garrick replied, turning his attention back to the boy. “So Tommy, you are to come to the castle each day at dawn until I relieve you of your duties. You are to work until nightfall helping the grooms clean the stables. And your friends must come with you.”

“But” —Tommy looked frantically at the now-vacant corner— “I have no friends.”

“So it appears.” Garrick forced the urchin to stare straight into his harsh gaze. “But they were into this mischief as much as you were. Tell them I recognized them, and if Ralph, the smith’s son, and the thatcher’s daughter, Mary, and the others don’t show up with you, they’ll have a much harsher punishment to face the next day.”

“But—” Tom whispered, his throat working at the thought of confronting his cohorts in crime.

“Tell them.” With a severe scowl, he lifted the boy off the horse’s shoulders and, with powerful arms, dropped him softly onto the road. “And if you show disrespect to Lady Morgana in the future, I shall be forced to find a more severe punishment.”

“He’ll be more than respectful.” Tommy’s mother wrapped her skinny arms around her son.

“See that he is.” Garrick shoved his heels into his steed’s sides, and the horse moved forward, leading the double file of soldiers through the main street of the village. The townspeople were now quiet, but their eyes followed Morgana as she rode stiffly on Phantom. From the corner of her eye, she saw the looks cast her way: the wary, resentful stares sent her by mothers shooing their children inside the buildings lining the street; the raised eyebrows and smirks of the older boys; the appraising glances of the men with lopsided grins dominating ruddy complexions. Yea, she’d been branded by them all.

The villagers thought her a witch and surely would alert the church officials. For the first time, Morgana knew fear. At Wenlock her powers and visions were known to the chaplain, as was her devotion to God. The chaplain often spoke of her visions as the light of God, though Friar Tobias seemed inclined to believe that finding the smith’s son and predicting a savage storm was not a gift from God but, more likely, pure luck.

Here at Abergwynn, however, she would have to confront a new chaplain, and perhaps several monks as well, and convince them of her piety while all around, the townspeople, freeman, and servants in the castle would be looking to Morgana for amusement, or worse. Oh, cursed, cursed, visions that had brought her here!

Through the town and past rolling fields of oats and wheat they rode. Morgana barely noticed the long stalks of grain bending before the wind, nor did she see the shimmering silky green waves of uncut hay nor the wildflowers heavy with blossoms along the roadside. No, she stared ahead to the rise in the land and the castle that stood thereon. Three times larger than Tower Wenlock, the fortress rose from the very cliffs on which it was mounted. Stone walls, thick enough to drive a cart atop, guarded the inner ward, and massive towers and battlements soared higher still, providing a falcon’s view of the surrounding lands.

From the highest tower, atop a pole, a large blue and gold banner snapped in the breeze, proclaiming to all that this castle and the surrounding forests, fields, and towns all belonged to Lord Garrick Maginnis, baron of Abergwynn.

“God help me,” she whispered.

Chapter Ten

“I cannot believe you would be so foolish!” Clare Maginnis whirled on her heel to face her brother, her palms turned toward the rafters of the great hall, while servants scurried into the room, preparing the tables for a feast to celebrate Garrick’s return. Ware, standing nearby, pretended no interest in the conversation. “You went all the way to Wenlock in Llanwynn in search of a … a…”

“Sorceress.” Garrick was tired of his sister’s theatrics. Clare had, since childhood, known how to create drama in the most ordinary of situations, and this … well, she was reveling in what she considered her brother’s foolishness.

“A sorceress,” she repeated. “And what, pray tell, do we need of a sorceress?”

Garrick’s patience was as thin as lambskin. “For Logan,” he whispered harshly. “You know why I brought Morgana here.”

“I only heard from Strahan,” she said, her eyes blazing. “By the time I heard the news, you were gone!”

Garrick ignored her fury and asked the question that was uppermost in his mind. “There has been no word of Logan?”

“None,” Clare admitted, glancing at her younger brother. Ware brushed a fleck of dirt from his boot and, frowning, wagged his head. “But this — this girl … she cannot hope to find Logan.” Clare, her anger and taste for drama spent, walked closer to Garrick and placed a soft hand on his shoulder. “Accept God’s will, Garrick. Know that Logan has joined his mother—”

Garrick swept his sister’s fingers from his tunic and stepped quickly away from her. “He’s not dead, and I’ll hear no more of this talk. Morgana is here to help me find the boy. She is betrothed to Strahan.”

Clare’s brows lifted a fraction. “To Strahan?” she repeated, though Garrick knew that his announcement came as no surprise to her. She rubbed her hands against her arms as if she felt cold, then motioned impatiently to a servant who had entered the great hall. The girl turned swiftly and hurried down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Aye, you know that Strahan asked for her hand and I agreed.”

“Mmm.” Clare plucked absently at her robe and didn’t meet Garrick’s eyes. “Did you also agree to bed her?”

Ware sucked in his breath, and Garrick’s patience snapped. With the speed of a striking snake, he crossed back to her again, towering over her, but Clare didn’t give an inch. She met his glower with a defiant glare of her own.

Garrick growled, “I did not steal her virginity, si