Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Tragedy?” she said quietly. “But he’s only been lost or kidnapped.”

For a second a shadow darkened Strahan’s eyes. “Come, bride, let us talk of other things. A wedding must be planned.”

Chapter Fourteen

Garrick didn’t sleep a wink. He lay in his large empty bed, thinking of Morgana, his body hard and wanting.

Though the night air sweeping through the open windows was cool and damp enough to extinguish the coals in his hearth, sweat trickled down his spine. And he ached. God in heaven, how he ached for her.

In frustration he’d thrown off the covers twice, climbed out of bed, paced to the windows, and prayed that his lust would subside. It hadn’t. In fact, as dawn drew near, he was nearly crazed with desire, his erection a stiff rod that embarrassed him. He’d spent half the night plotting ways to end Morgana’s betrothal to Strahan and the other half cursing himself for wanting the witch. What was it about her he found so fascinating, so damned challenging? Again he sent up a prayer, and he imagined God laughing at him.

“You’re a bloody fool,” he growled at himself as the cock crowed and the first morning light began to filter softly through the windows, bringing with the grayness of dawn the sounds of the servants rustling about, making ready for the new days. For the past few days Strahan had encouraged him to plan for the wedding, but Garrick refused to allow it until Logan was found.

Garrick dressed hastily and was downstairs before many in the castle had stirred.

Outside, the soldiers were waking, and some of the servants were moving about the yard. In the outer bailey chickens began clucking as a plump servant girl threw them handfuls of grain from a basket. The hens and roosters gathered around her, feathers flying, clawed feet scratching, heads bobbing to snatch up each kernel or fine piece of oystershell. When the basket was empty of grain, the heavy girl crawled into the hen house, rummaged in the nests, and filled the basket with eggs for the cook. Another girl, burdened with large buckets, hurried to the shed to milk the bawling cows. The smith was busy adding wood to his fire, and two half-grown boys packed kindling to the kitchen, where Habren was already barking out orders.

A laundress carried a huge basket of linens to the trough. She drew water from the well, and the chain creaked and groaned. A boy whom Garrick recognized as the smith’s son was skimming fish from the pond with his net. Mornings at Abergwynn continued at the same pace they always had, despite the fact that Astrid was dead, Logan was missing, and a useless witch had started to enchant him.

The gates rattled open, and several of the town children grudgingly ambled inside as the gatekeeper let them pass. The boys and girls headed directly to the stables, and young Tommy looking barely awake, his hair sticking out at odd angles, joked and laughed with the rest. He noticed Garrick, and his expression changed from gaiety to a scowl. Casting a glare over his thin shoulder, just to show the great baron that he was not intimidated, he followed a well-worn path to the back of the stables where shovels and pitchforks were waiting.

Two creaking wagons followed the boys and girls into the bailey. The first, a new wagon pulled by a sleek horse and driven by the fat tailor, was filled with cloth and furs. The second, rougher wagon rolled slowly into the yard. A sway-backed animal that looked dead on its hooves was yoked to the cart, and a farmer flicked a whip over the beast’s ears. The man was rail thin, and his face was bruised. Sacks of grain were stacked in the cart and shifted with each creaky turn of the muddy wheels. Cursing under his breath, the farmer slapped the reins over the bony horse’s rump.

Sir Randolph had been speaking with the gatekeeper, but he spotted Garrick. “Halt there, farmer,” he said and motioned to Garrick. “This man” —he gestured to the man seated on the sorry-looking wagon— “claims to know something of Logan.”

Garrick’s gaze landed on the man with a force that caused the farmer to visibly wince. “Is this true?”

“Aye. At least I think so, m’lord.” The man scratched his arm nervously before climbing down from his cart and snatching off his hood, displaying in the process a face that was slightly swollen and discolored. Several of the man’s teeth appeared to be missing as he bowed at Garrick’s feet.

Garrick’s muscles tightened, and he hardly dared to hope that the man was speaking the truth. “Tell me. Who are you?”

“Will Farmer. I live three days’ ride from here to the east, at the edge of hills.”

“And you saw my boy?”

The farmer cast a frightened look at Randolph. “I saw a boy, m’lord, in the company of a maid.”

“When?”

“Seven — no, eight days ago.”

“Describe the boy.”

“Red-gold hair with a few freckles, m’lord. Blue eyes, I think. Barely a toddler. Two, mayhap three years old.” He went on to describe Logan’s clothes and Jocelyn’s as well. Garrick’s teeth clenched, and he wanted to shake the farmer to make the words spill out faster. Feeling a rush of emotion so great that he nearly fell to his knees. Garrick silently thanked God that the boy might still be alive.

Will Farmer nervously rubbed his nose. “As I said, I’m not sure it’s your boy, but…” He shrugged, letting the rest of his thoughts trail off.

“How did you come upon him?” Garrick asked, trying to keep his hopes from soaring out of control. For all he knew, this man could be lying for his own benefit, though there was an honesty about his weathered face and the calluses on his hands showed that Will Farmer was used to hard work. Garrick found it difficult not to trust him. “What happened?”

“I was robbed. A band of thugs who stalk the hills to the east attacked my cart on the way to market and took my sacks of wood. The maid and boy were with the group — kept prisoners, I’d guess, though I was so frightened I paid little attention and was grateful to get off with my life. The brutes left me for dead, but it takes more than a few punches and kicks to take the life of Will Famer.” He ended his talk with a little bit of pride but then hung his head. “Had I guessed the boy was yours, m’lord, I would’ve fought to the very death to save him. But I knew not…”

A thundering rage galloped through Garrick at the thought of Logan and his nursemaid being held by low-life robbers and thieves. Involuntarily, his fingers curled tightly, as if they were already circling the throat of one of the thugs. He turned angry eyes on Randolph. “Tell the steward to buy whatever Will Farmer will sell us from his cart. See that he’s fed and rested. Then bring him to my chamber. Tell Stra

han I want twenty of my men ready to ride by noon today.” Garrick rested his hands on the farmer’s thin shoulder. “Thank you, Will Farmer. Now rest a bit and then tell me again what you know of my son. Should I find Logan by acting on your words, you will be rewarded.”

Finally! Word of his son! Garrick tried to calm the eager beat of his heart and the rage that mingled with hope as it pulsed through his veins. This farmer’s story could be false, or it might be yet another worthless bit of news that led to nothing. Garrick couldn’t allow his hopes to soar, lest they be dashed again.

Morgana, standing at the bed, slid a glance at her sister. Glyn was pale, her throat worked, and she kept her eyes averted from the gash on the leg of the armorer’s son. “This is important,” Clare was saying as she washed the wound with a clean cloth and warm water. “Many times after battle you will be in charge of ministering to the wounded. Your knowledge and your ability to work swiftly will determine whether your husband’s best soldiers live or die.”