Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Even the men she distrusted — Sir Randolph and Sir Charles and a few of their friends — never disobeyed an order and were quick to do Garrick’s bidding. Sir York, though grim, did nothing to defy Garrick. Nor did Sir Hunter or Sir Joseph, and yet they made her uneasy with their uncompromising stares and their laughter at her expense. The smug turn of Charles’s pinched lips and the lustful gleam in Randolph’s eyes made her nervous.

Habren, the heavy servant, had insinuated that Sir Charles was neglectful in his duties, and Randolph had more than a few cruel jokes at Morgana’s expense, but she’d seen no evidence that either of the men was plotting against Garrick. She wondered if baiting Randolph when she first met him had created a dangerous enemy she would never be able to trust.

As each day passed, Morgana tried to tell herself that the strain in the great hall was due to Garrick’s black mood and worries over the fate of his child. Morgana studied with Clare, became more familiar with the castle, and learned a little of the man who was baron. Most of his servants respected him. Even Habren, who was often out of sorts, would smile at the mention of Garrick’s name.

“Aye, and he’s a sad one, that he is,” she said, clucking her tongue as she counted the sacks of flour and sugar the provisioner had brought to the kitchen, for she didn’t trust the man, and the steward, Habren was convinced, drank too much to know what he was doing. “This loss of Logan, well … I don’t know if Lord Garrick will ever recover. First his wife and then his son…” Sighing, she moved on to smaller sacks of rice, almonds, and pepper, touching each bag and moving her lips as she counted. “Well … he’s got it right this time,” she said, brushing her fingers on her dusty apron. “But that little twit has been skimming off some of the supplies,” she said. “I’m sure of it. I just can’t catch him.” Vexed, she frowned and cast Morgana a curious glance. “I don’t suppose you could work up some of your magic and cause whoever the thief around here is to be covered with a pox or have his hair rot out, could ye?”

Morgana, despite herself, had to swallow a grin. “I don’t think so.” She’d already quit denying her powers; denial did no good. People, including Habren, would believe what they wanted to

believe, be it good or bad, reasonable or foolish.

“Well, I’ll have to find another way to catch him, then, a way that the provisioner isn’t clever enough to notice,” Habren muttered to herself. “Mark my words, I’ll not be blamed for a loss of wax or vinegar or soap or anything else that snake slithers away with.”

“Have you talked to the baron about this?”

“I spoke to the steward, Sir Charles. A lot of good that did Charles said he was in charge and would handle any problems, and that, m’lady, is the last I’ve heard.” She ended with a disgruntled snort.

Morgana silently agreed with Habren. Sir Charles, who continually sent severe, self-righteous glances to follow the path of his hooked nose, made her uncomfortable. She was reminded of a lazy hawk. Even his mouth, pinched into a perpetual frown, added to the beakish appearance of his nose.

Morgana, as she had every day, was attempting, embroidery. She pierced her finger with the needle. “Damned sewing!”

Wolf, from a corner, growled.

A horn sounded the approach of guests. Morgana tossed the hated hoop and needle aside and ran to the window where, over the walls of the outer bailey, she spied a double column of riders approaching. Guests! At last, some excitement.

With Wolf on her heels, she dashed into the hallway and started down the stairs where servants were bustling between the partitions. She stopped for a second, silently commanding Wolf to halt. “Shh,” she whispered and heard bits and pieces of the excited chatter. From her position on the steps she couldn’t help but overhear two of the women servants.

“Is it news of Master Logan?” Mildraed, a laundress with stringy brown hair and huge eyes, asked as she hastened toward the kitchen with a basket piled high with soiled sheets. Waif thin, Mildraed had a keen nose for gossip and could spread a rumor as quickly as she heard it.

“Nay, I think not,” Habren replied, dusting her fingers together.

Mildraed paused to catch her breath. “Who, then?”

“Could be Osric McBrayne, that blackheart, or some other scoundrel.”

“Aye, or Osric’s daughter again.” Nodding sagely, Mildraed balanced her heavy load on her hip. “Since poor Lady Astrid’s death she has been seeking marriage to the baron.”

“Hmph,” Habren muttered. “Well, there’s no sounding of the alarm, so my guess is that it’s not McBrayne, thank the saints!”

Mildraed wasn’t about to be turned away from gossip. “’Tis no secret Rhosyn McBrayne sought Sir Garrick years ago.” She leaned closer to Habren and whispered, “You know, ’tis said that Sir Garrick was about to ask Rhosyn’s hand when he met Lady Astrid. Rhosyn and her father have never forgiven him for breaking the engagement.”

“McBrayne’s a scoundrel. Just remember it was Osric himself who stole Baron Hazelwood’s land.” Habren grunted and started for the kitchen again. “I doubt Rhosyn would show her face here without her father, and if Osric were about, the knights would stand ready. Mayhap it’s word from the king. Those Scots are making trouble again. Mark my words, ’twon’t be long before those pagans start a war.” She crossed her heavy bosom, and the rest of her words drifted away as she disappeared through the doorway.

Morgana knew the party that was approaching was no war party. No warrior would be so stupid as to plod along in full daylight to attack Abergwynn. With her skirts bunched in her hands and Wolf at her heels, she ran to the front door and nearly collided with Garrick.

She slid to a stop, and he reached out one strong arm to stop her from falling. Glancing down at her, he scowled. His gaze didn’t drift away but touched hers with an intimacy that stopped her cold.

For a second her breath was lost in her throat, and she felt the weight of her breasts spilling across his forearm.

“Are you in such a hurry to see your sister?”

“Glyn? Glyn’s here?” she said, her voice barely a squeak. Was the beast joking with her?

“Aye, and your brother, too?”

“Cadell!” She felt a happiness well up inside her, and to her surprise Garrick’s stony countenance broke.

One dark brow quirked in amusement. “Your father led me to believe that you and your sister could not get along — fire and water, he called you.”